


The Curious Case of the Boy In the Raincoat

by rude_not_ginger



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-04
Updated: 2014-11-15
Packaged: 2018-02-07 11:24:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 44,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1897224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rude_not_ginger/pseuds/rude_not_ginger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes is a reluctant babysitter of the young child of one of his clients.  But who is this boy?  Who is his mother?  And how does it all relate to Sherlock?</p>
<p>John Watson on the case!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Doorbell Rang

It was not raining, as it happens.

This is not an important piece of information to begin with, but it will be.

Sherlock Holmes was returning, as it was, from a particularly unpleasant interview with several rather unpleasant thuggish brutes (who were also unfortunately not involved in the murder investigation).

“Unpleasant?” John snapped, throwing the door shut behind himself. “How can you call _that_ just ‘unpleasant’?”

“I have had worse,” Sherlock responded, holding the handkerchief against his nose. “And it’s not as though it’s actually broken. He was boasting, not actually skilled in anatomy.”

“Yeah, well, I’ll be the one who determines that,” John said, following his companion up the stairs. “And if I think it’s broken, you’re wearing the bloody brace if I have to shove your----“

His words were cut off at the top of the stairs, as Sherlock had stopped, rather prematurely, at the front door. John peered around the taller man, to see him staring at the room’s unexpected occupant. A boy of about four, maybe five, with dark, tightly curled hair. The boy was reading a book and wearing a rain coat and wellies.

Hence the prior comment about how it was, in fact, not raining.

“When did she drop you off?” Sherlock asked.

“About an hour ago,” the boy replied, not looking up from his book. “There is nothing to eat.”

Sherlock turned and looked in the direction of the kitchen, as though suddenly realizing the room was there. “Ah. Yes, I’ll restock it.”

As Sherlock, apparently, had no intention of moving, John squeezed next to his friend. “Sorry, hello,” he addressed the boy. “I’m John---“

“I know,” the boy said. He looked up at this point, and his eyes were rather small for his pudgy face. He reminded John a bit of Mycroft, whenever he gave up dieting for a few months due to stress or irritation. The annoyed expression on the boy’s face also reminded John of Mycroft. It was rather creepy.

The boy gestured to Sherlock. “He talks to you when you are not here. It is really annoying, actually. Mother says I am supposed to expect that.”

John nodded, slowly. “And your Mum is…?”

“A client,” Sherlock responded, choosing this moment to sweep into the room and over to the bookshelf. His bloodied nose apparently forgotten, he tossed the handkerchief on the table and began pulling books, apparently at random, and tossing them onto his chair.

“Did you get me the book I asked for?” the boy asked. He shut the book he was reading. John could see the title; it was a precursory book on mathematics, something John would have expected in someone a few years older than the boy. Nothing terribly unexpected, though. Perhaps the child was just an overachiever.

“It’s up in the room, as you would have noticed if you’d been up there,” Sherlock responded.

“Up in the room?” John asked, blinking. “What, my room?”

Sherlock turned to look at John, and his face was a little tight. It was one of those pointed expressions John never really understood, though he expected that Sherlock put a lot of thought and consideration into that expression.

“It hasn’t been your room in some time, John,” Sherlock responded. He turned back to the bookshelf. “And he does need somewhere to sleep. I assume she gave you the raincoat because she expects to be gone until after Thursday, when we’re expecting rain.”

“Yes,” the boy responded. He looked over to the stairwell towards John’s old room, and his tight, annoyed expression now looked to John as though it were younger, more excited. What sort of a book would an odd child like this want? Something full of racecars and rocketships? No, nothing so mundane, John imagined.

“She just brought you back from Russia, though, I see,” Sherlock added.

The boy sighed, and rolled his eyes.

John’s eyebrows knitted together. “What do you mean?”

“Russian belt,” Sherlock said, gesturing in the boy’s direction. “Newest of his clothes, only bought six to ten days ago, considering the wear on the eyelets. The next newest are your wellingtons, bought in Italy and worn through three rains, so that would be travel by train from Italy to Northern Germany, and then across to Russia. In Germany you also acquired your coat and your sweater, which is too tight on you because it was bought in a hurry. Considering both you and her are aware that it is too tight, it means you have no other luggage, meaning that she’s left in some sort of trouble.”

“Brilliant,” John said.

The boy sighed, and stood, reaching over to the side of the couch, where a small, rolling trolly sat. Luggage? John was astounded.

“She said you’d say that, and I wasn’t to change until you did,” the boy said. He pulled the trolly towards the stairs.

John looked back at Sherlock, whose astonished expression must have mirrored his own.

John licked his lips before he spoke. “Are you babysitting?”

Sherlock sighed. “Under duress.”

He returned to the books on his chair and began organizing them into a pile that seemed completely random to John, but probably had some serious and inventive reasoning behind it that belonged only to Sherlock Holmes. John's mind was still on the boy that he could hear dragging his luggage behind him up the stairs. Someone precocious, it appeared, with Mycroft's coloring and pudginess to his cheeks---did Mycroft have a child that John didn't know about?

As it was, the idea of Mycroft having a romantic life was something that never even remotely occurred to John. The boy was four, so it would have been a woman that John might've had contact with.

"Anthea?" John queried.

Sherlock had moved to the other side of the sitting room, one book in hand, and he looked over at John with pure confusion.

John clarified: "Did Mycroft have an affair with Anthea?" He assumed the 'to produce this boy you're watching over' was implied. "He did take her off of all the impersonal meetings business."

"Absolutely not," Sherlock responded immediately. "She's been secretly in love with Molly Hooper since the first time she saw her on CCTV. Mycroft has her watching Bart's in order to fuel her addiction. I thought that was painfully obvious."

"Nothing is with you," John replied.

There was a shuffling sound, and John turned as the young boy reappeared at the bottom of the stairs, holding a large, brightly colored book titled _Orchids_. He had changed, as promised, and now wore a simple tee-shirt and jeans that fit him significantly better than the suit had.

"Was it two men, or three?" the boy asked. "Mother says you are a good fighter. One man would not break your nose."

"It's not broken," Sherlock responded.

"It looks broken," the boy responded.

John nodded. "I actually have to agree."

"Do you really _have_ to?" Sherlock grumbled. He put a hand on top of the stack of books. "These are also for you. Finish them up before I get back."

John's eyebrows shot up to his hairline. Books in the stack included a book on bullet manufacturing, advanced criminal psychology, and _the Hardy Boys_. The boy nodded, clutching his orchid book closer to his chest.

"I'll make sure Mrs. Hudson brings you up tea," Sherlock added. "Come on, John, we've got what we need."

With that, the consulting detective brushed past the child and bolted towards the door.

"Wait, didn't you need to pick something up?" John called ahead.

"Already did! The game is on!"

John started towards the stairs, but stopped in front of the boy. He crouched next to him.

"What's your name?" John asked.

"Arsene H. Lupin," the boy replied, instantly. "It is French. Mother was feeling very patriotic."

"And your mother is French, then?"

"Yes. And was a client here a long time ago."

John laughed at the boy's articulate nature. "How old are you?"

"Five," the boy said. "You ask a lot of questions. Are you a detective as well as a doctor?"

"Did your Mum tell you that? Because I don't remember a Lupin from five years ago."

The boy shook his head. "You said you would set the bone of his nose. I was listening." With that, the boy---Arsene, apparently---stepped over to Sherlock's sitting chair and dropped in, picking up one of the Hardy Boys books and opening it to the first page.

Sherlock's voice called up to him. "Come on, John!"

 

It was very late when they returned back. Mary had been there to help clean up bandaged knuckles, and had even been "unsurprisingly useful" (as Sherlock put it) by correctly identifying a handgun simply by the recording sound of a gunshot. She also promised to give Sherlock tutoring in determining the sound (the exchange was just a little creepy, the two of them boasting and excited over their mutual gun-sound knowledge. John was, once again, confronted with the possibility that he married a female version of Sherlock Holmes.)

"Yes, well, we'll start again in the morning," Sherlock said.

"It is the morning," Mary retorted. "Three in it, to be precise. If you're tired, you can take a kip in our bed."

"Our bed," John raised his voice from the other room. "Our bed, Mary. You should ask me before you offer it up!"

Mary shook her head and stage-whispered to Sherlock: "He doesn't mind."

Sherlock smiled. He had a lot of smiles, John came to realize. Wide, laughing ones that only really came out when something very funny had occurred, thinking smiles that came out in a case, and those strange, mutually-affectionate smiles he shared with Mary. John often believed that in their minds he was the psychopath and they were the equally-harassed friends. Oh, god. Sherlock and Mary had become John and Mrs. Hudson.

"Actually, I've got to go," Sherlock said. He gestured to the door. "I've got---shopping."

"Seriously?" Mary asked. "In the middle of a case?"

John got to his feet. "Right! Arsene."

Sherlock and Mary's reaction was simultaneous: "Who?"

"The boy you're babysitting. Arsene Lupin," John said. He blinked in Sherlock's direction. "You don't know his name?"

"That's not his name," Sherlock replied.

"Wait, you're actually babysitting someone?" Mary laughed as Sherlock spoke. "Getting practice on for our girl?"

John's voice was firm: "Sherlock Holmes will not be babysitting our daughter."

"That's not the point," Sherlock said. "I do have to get some---" he gestured, indifferently. "---food. For him."

John was surprised that Sherlock was so insistent on leaving, and the consulting detective immediately turned towards the door. The child had been alone in 221b for well over twelve hours, and a thought occurred to John:

"Get him a treat of some sort, would you? Like a slice of pie or something. Kid's been on his own all day, reading those bloody books you got him."

Mary thwapped John's arm. "Shouldn't fill the kid up on sugar before he takes him back to his family."

"What harm's a little sugar going to do?"

"You must know it makes them unbelievably hyper and cranky. Haven't you seen Jimmy across the street after his babysitter leaves?"

"I thought he was just like that."

There was a quiet noise as Sherlock closed the front door behind himself. Mary immediately turned to John, wide-eyed and gossipy. John loathed gossiping and everything that came with it, but he had to admit, Mary was rather adorable when she got this excited.

"He's babysitting? Who is he babysitting?"

John shrugged. "Told me his name was Arsene Lupin, but apparently _that_ wasn't true. Really odd kid. Looks a bit like Mycroft."

"Mycroft has never been with a woman," Mary interjected.

"Well, maybe---"

"No, seriously," Mary insisted. "We can tell these things, and believe me, I can tell."

John looked at her skeptically. "Honestly."

"Yes," she said. She gestured to the door. "Better catch up with him, though. He's not going to sleep, and you don't want him performing experiments late at night with whoever the kid is still there."

"Are you sure?" Although John was certain that Mary was, he always asked. It was a pact, of sorts. She would always offer as though it were a suggestion she made, even though they both knew it was something he wanted, and he, in turn, would always ask if it was all right. It was their way of being truthful to each other. Her showing him that his love of Sherlock was all right, and he showing her that he still cared enough about them to ask.

It often astonished him that he had ever doubted their relationship. That moment in Leinster Gardens seemed like forever ago, and it took true effort to recall all of those feelings of anger and betrayal he felt that night. One day, he imagined, he would never feel them again, and he would never have moments where he might think of Mary as anyone but Mary Watson. That day was not to-day, but it would happen. Eventually.

"Go on," she said, gesturing to the door. "Text me if you work out who the kid is, yeah?"

"Love you," he said.

"Ta," she replied.

Such a strange but oddly perfect way to live. John wouldn't want anything else.

When John arrived at 221b, he found Sherlock's coat hanging on the hook, but no sign of the detective. He stepped up the stairs, remembering to avoid the step that creaked loudly. How often did he climb these stairs over the last few years? Living a life with Sherlock Holmes, then remembering the times he spent living that life. He would miss it, really. Even that one creaking stair.

At the top of the stairs, he saw the boy, sleeping awkwardly in the chair, his orchid book half-opened under one arm. Fallen asleep while reading. It was hard to say, but John wouldn't have been surprised if he found that the boy hadn't moved since they left. The books Sherlock left were in a pile on the floor, a few little pieces of paper sticking out of the sides, marking pages, or perhaps questions. Also a dictionary, which John knew Sherlock had not procured from his bookshelf. Maybe the boy brought it on his own.

On the table next to the boy was a slice of pie sitting on a new book on botany and fungal relationships, which John only sort-of knew was related to orchid growth. The idea that he might be dealing with a nephew of Sherlock's returned to John's mind. After all, such a show of affection was something that wasn't even shown to John at birthdays or Christmas (though, occasionally when Sherlock broke something that was important to John, or got him sacked from a good job.)

He found Sherlock had moved his information from above the fireplace to his own bedroom, pinning it up above the headboard. He stepped inside and shut the door.

"No rest, I see."

Sherlock shrugged. "Shouldn't have come at all, he was asleep."

John nodded. "Saw you bought him the pie."

"Mmmm, I do trust Mary's mothering skills, she was especially good with me for the few months before you got married."

John opened the door again, glancing back out at the sleeping boy.

"He's going to get a twinge in his neck, sleeping that way," John said.

"No, he'll end up back in bed before he wakes up," Sherlock responded.

"Why, does he sleepwalk?"

Sherlock turned to face John. "No, that's…what always happened to me when I was that age."

"So your parents put you to bed."

"No, I---" Sherlock blinked. "I---I suppose they did."

"What, did you think you just _apparated_ there, or something?"

"I figured it just sort of happened."

Sometimes Sherlock's ignorance and innocence was astounding. Man of 37, thinking he just appeared in bed. He wondered about the Holmes parents. They seemed outstandingly normal, but for both Mycroft and Sherlock to be how they were…there had to be something underneath it all. He idly wondered if his own children would be this way. An ex-military doctor, and whatever the hell Mary had been before all this leading the way.

At least Sherlock approved of her mothering skills.

Sherlock was still staring at John, John realized. His eyes were wide, his shoulders tight. He actually looked very young, almost frightened.

"Sherlock," John said, stepping towards him. "What is it?"

Sherlock swallowed. "Should I---take him upstairs?"

Oh, god. Is that what he was frightened of? John couldn't help the slight smile that appeared on his face at Sherlock's fear. It was as if he'd never handled a child before, though John came to understand that this boy had stayed here before.

"Yeah," John said. "Unless you'd rather I---?"

"No," Sherlock replied. "No, I---I have it."

He stepped towards the sitting room, pausing to straighten the bottom of his dress shirt, before reaching the boy in the chair. Although a bit plump for his age, the boy was still very young, and John knew that Sherlock was surprisingly strong. He reached under the boy, lifting him up gingerly, carefully. The boy easily rolled to the side, leaning his head on Sherlock's shoulder. He mumbled something that made Sherlock pause, though John couldn't hear quite what he said. Sherlock turned towards the stairs and slowly stepped up them. He even stepped over the fourth stair (the creaky one he insisted was walked upon so that the wear would be the same and would not allow for suspecting intruders to notice the difference.)

Who was this boy? Why was he so special?

Sherlock's mobile chimed from where it lay on the bed. While John was often invited to look at Sherlock's phone (read: answer Sherlock's texts when he was too lazy to do it himself), he had the sudden feeling that looking at this text would be an invasion of privacy. That there would be something in it that he would regret seeing.

He picked up the phone, sliding it to open.

He was right.


	2. The Next Witness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A text message. Confused witnesses. A vicious hitman. All of these things come into play while John Watson continues to try to solve the mystery of the young boy Sherlock has under his care.
> 
> After all, everyone deserves to suffer through a bring-a-child-to-work day, even Sherlock and John!

The last text read: _I will be around tomorrow.  Make sure Dr. Watson has his gun_.

John's eyebrows went up.  Was this a threat?  The number appeared to be one that Sherlock didn't keep saved into his phone.  One text, out of the blue.  John pushed the back button, only to find that the last seven texts were all from random, unregistered numbers.  A dummy phone, then.  Something that was used once, and then thrown away.

Someone stalking Sherlock?  Stalking them both?  Clearly someone who knew John, or about him.  Was this related to the case they were on?  Were they in danger? Was Mary in danger? Was this strange, precocious child that was Sherlock's unexpected responsibility in danger?

John's finger moved over the next series of texts to read them, just as he heard Sherlock entering the room.

"What is it?" Sherlock said.

John held up the phone.  "You got a text. It was---"

Sherlock reached out, and snatched the phone from John's fingers. In all of the time they knew each other, John could not think of when that had happened.  Normally, Sherlock would take the phone when it was offered, or demand it back.  He never just _took._   Sherlock's eyebrows knitted together, and he attempted to send a response text.

"Do you have your gun?"

"Yes, of course I do," John replied.  "Who is that?"

The phone made a failure noise.  Sherlock swore under his breath.  Also not something John was used to.  Sherlock was not one for immediate frustration like this.  This was…odd.

"Dummy phone," Sherlock said.  "Can't respond to it, it's already been disconnected."

"Yeah, I got that," John said.  He gestured at Sherlock's phone in annoyance.  " _Who_ was sending the texts?"

Sherlock waved a hand in John's direction, tossed the phone back onto the bed, and stepped over to the wall of information.  "It's not important until tomorrow night," Sherlock said. "We have a case to focus on."

John found a sudden burst of fury running through him.  Perhaps it was because he was due to be a father, or perhaps it was because Sherlock could be so _bloody dens_ e at times.  Whatever the reason, he found himself quite angry, quite quickly.

"I can't believe this.  There is a little boy in there that, whether you like it or not, is depending on you to take care of him.  If whoever this is shows up, ready to attack, and you're off on your case rather than watching him? You've already broken your nose---"

"It's not broken."

"Yes! It is!  And if you're just expecting me to bring a gun without telling me what we're facing---"

"You're right," Sherlock interjected.

"About what?"

"It's too dangerous to leave him here alone."  He turned back to his wall, folding his hands in front of him. "We'll have to take him with us tomorrow."

John's eyes widened.

_"What?"_

 

The boy was up by half past five.  Sherlock apparently had no idea what children needed nutritionally, so he bought boxes of sugared cereal, lots of processed foods, and snacks. There was also a big box of sweets, but Sherlock informed the boy he wasn't to eat that until he was about to go home to his mother.  Sherlock, it appeared, did not know how to shop for someone who was not himself at the age of five, since he only bought the things he wanted to eat at that age (certainly not the things he was forced to eat, he told John.  That would be rude.)

The boy took a bite of pie.  John drank his tea and glared at Sherlock.  The rest of the night garnered no information about who the text sender was, nor what they were up against.  Sherlock tossed more information about the killer they had been hunting for in John's direction.

They knew he was tall.  White. Blond hair.  Fingernails falling apart, located under the victim's remaining epidermis. The victim, flayed alive in the thirty-second blip on the security feed of a local bank.  This, John stated, was not something that a five year old boy should be forced to see.  It could be remedied another way, and that way was complete honesty.

The boy took a drink of his tea.  "No," he said.

"What?" Sherlock demanded.

"You want me to go with you rather than stay here, today. I don't want to."

John nearly spat out his own tea.  How did the boy know that?

As if reading his mind, the boy spoke again.  "Neither of you have slept or talked to me, and yet you're still here.  You're waiting for me. I don't want to go. I didn't want to go last time, I don't want to this time."

John looked to Sherlock.  "Last time?"

Sherlock waved him off.  "A failed experiment."

"I like staying at home," the boy said.  "There isn't anything out there I can't find in here."

Sherlock pointed a finger in the boy's direction.  "I'm not having you turning into some sort of----some sort of _armchair detective."_

"Mother would say that you don't have a say in that." The boy took another bite of pie. Softer, more timidly, he said, "Everything out there is too busy.  I don't like things so busy."

"You sound like Mycroft," Sherlock huffed, leaning back in his chair like a reprimanded child.

The boy considered this as he took a sip of his tea.  "You and Mother really don't like him, do you?"

John, silent until this moment, spoke up.  "Your mother knows Mycroft?"  Ah _ha!_ Possibly _intimately_? Was this a sign of a potential nephew of Sherlock's?

"Yes," the boy responded.  "But she won't let me meet him."

"No, it's not a good idea," Sherlock agreed.  "He'd like you too much."

John looked back to his former flatmate.  "You say that like it's a bad thing."

"It is," Sherlock replied.  He turned to the boy.  "As for you, you _will_ be going on an outing with us."

"Can't I stay with his wife?" the boy asked, glancing at John. "I bet she has some really interesting books."

John pointed to Sherlock.  This was a great idea.  Mary loved to babysit, the boy would be an interesting challenge, and she was far better at obtaining information through subterfuge than John as.  Maybe she could work out the mother of this strange creature.

"Absolutely not," Sherlock said.  "She's far cleverer than John, and that could make things dangerously complicated."

John was pleased, initially, at the compliment towards Mary, and then immediately irritated.  Such was the way with Sherlock.  Whenever the consulting detective was bored, irritated, or both, he immediately took to insulting the intelligence of others.  John was, apparently, in the way of this latest barrage.  The boy, to John's surprise, glanced over at him with a small, understanding smile.  It was the sort of genuine smile that made John believe that the boy didn't think him an idiot at all.  Stupid as it was to feel better about that (the boy was only five, after all), it warmed John's heart a little.  The strange but clearly intelligent boy liked him.

"Stop trying to appeal to John's better nature," Sherlock said. "You _will_ be coming with us."

The boy turned back to Sherlock and made a full-on pout face. It would have been absolutely adorable, if it weren't clearly staged.  Unlike the genuine smile of a moment before, this emotional outburst was outlandish and a bit obnoxious, though real tears seemed to immediately spring to his eyes.

"Timing," Sherlock said, pointing at the child.  "You have to let the emotion well up in you before you pout, and the average emotional tear takes at least two full minutes to burst forth. If you try to make it like you're struggling not to cry, it's far more effective."

"I could start wailing," the boy said, dropping the pout.

"And then I'll ask your mother to never bring you back again," Sherlock said, firmly.

The boy looked, surprisingly, heartbroken at the very idea. His little face changed into something much more befitting his age, in John's opinion.  Young, vulnerable.  The reason for why the boy's mother left him here became very obvious to John: The boy really and truly liked Sherlock Holmes.  The night before they had shared barely a few sentences, but this time together meant an exceeding amount to the boy.  Even Sherlock looked guilty at the boy's change in demeanor.

"I won't wail," the boy said.

Sherlock nodded, stiffly.  "Good." He reached out, patting the boy on the shoulder, awkwardly.  "But you're still coming with us."

The boy nodded.  "I'll get my raincoat."

 

It started raining, rather unexpectedly, at about 2 in the afternoon. None of the weather stations had reported the possibility of rain, and Sherlock stated rather loudly that meteorology was something that his phone did, so he didn't have to learn it. The boy was very comfortable in his raincoat.

The interviews with witnesses were _tedious_ , bringing Sherlock and John up with nothing.  The same man they saw was in the Casa Sotalio before the murder. Same description. After the fourth or fifth comment expressing congratulations to the two detectives for bringing up such a bright young boy together in this crazy world, John gave up correcting them. Sherlock was oblivious, and the boy seemed amused, even taking to hugging John's leg when one of those comments arose.

"You thought you wouldn't enjoy this," John said as they stepped out of the shop where the victim had last been seen alive.

"It's not so bad," the boy replied. "It's funny that they always think you two are---"

"Yes, well, we get that a lot."  John sighed.

The boy nodded.  "Mum says that it's because you two are the best of friends like nobody in the whole world."

John looked up at Sherlock, ahead of them by a few shops, looking into a window. He never thought he'd miss Sherlock, back before his 'death' years before. But he did.  His best friend, the one person he didn't have to _try_ around.  Mary saw it, and told John that she didn't want to come between their friendship. She wanted to nurture it, watch it grow. She said it made John whole. Apparently this Ms. Lupin saw it, too. Whoever she was.

"What about you, hmmm?" John asked, looking down at the boy. "Who's your best friend?"

The boy shook his head.  "Mum and I don't stay in one place long enough to have friends." The longer the boy was around, the less formalized his language sounded, John noticed.  It was like the veil of an older age was suddenly lifted, and his true, younger self started to come out.  'Mother' became 'Mum', and all the long-winded sentences were contracted.  Relaxed. He wondered if the boy did it intentionally. He decided not to ask.

"You could get a dog," John suggested.  "Travel with you everywhere you go."

The boy shook his head.  "Mum says I can't have a dog."

"What?" Sherlock snapped from up ahead.  "You can't have a dog?!"

The outburst was more than unexpected, and caused John to freeze in his tracks.  Firstly, Sherlock often gave the impression he wasn't paying attention, though his mind was fully on what was going on around him. (Though, at other times it was the exact opposite). Secondly, Sherlock once told him that he'd had a dog when he was young, but John didn't realize that Sherlock would be so…passionate about the boy having one.

The boy shook his head. "Mum says it means we can't fly first class."

Sherlock shook his head.  "Unacceptable. Just _typical_."

"Typical?" John repeated.  "What do you mean---?"

There was the sound of a beep.  Sherlock's text alert.  Sherlock pulled the mobile from his pocket and looked down.

"It's time," he said.  "We have a meeting."

John's free hand went over to his back, where the gun was tucked away. "Where?"

"Bart's," Sherlock replied.  "The rooftop."

Of all the places.  John involuntarily felt his chest tighten.  He had gone back there many times, of course.  Sometimes just to stand in the place that Sherlock had died.  Sometimes just to stand where he had been when he watched Sherlock fall.  Sometimes to see Molly, of course. Couldn't forget Molly. But Bart's was, in general, a place of great pain for John.  He had become accustomed to the pain that came with the hospital.   Even now, he loathed going there.

"Why the rooftop?" John demanded.  "That seems a bit---ominous."  Particularly with the re-arrival of Jim Moriarty in the world. A panic seized John. Could this be Jim Moriarty texting Sherlock? The game-playing would make sense. Warning Sherlock that John needed to bring his gun.

He suddenly felt a small, warm hand in his own.  He looked down to see the boy. 

"Your hand was shaking," the boy said.  The boy was, really, very small.  Without his big voice and strangely grown-up attitude, he appeared to be the four-or-five year old that John knew he was. He became a child again. John felt a spread of warmth for the child.  Yeah, the boy was unusual, and more than a bit aloof, but he did care about John's feelings---which was more than John could really say for Sherlock on most days.

"I thought he wasn't going to be here until the evening," John said, looking back up at the detective, but keeping his hand in the boy's.

"Time, it appears, is of the essence."  Sherlock was looking down at his phone, but clearly unable to return the text.  His eyes were on the boy's hand in John's, and an unreadable expression was on his face. Was he jealous of the boy's affection to John?  That didn't make any sense. Apart from the gentle way Sherlock had carried the boy upstairs the night before, and the book gift, John hadn't really seen any affection at all from Sherlock to the boy.   This was…all very odd.

"Is it going to be like _The Hardy Boys_ number 5, chapter 7?  The Rooftop Struggle?" the boy asked.  "Is that why you had me read that around Christmas?"

"No," Sherlock replied, and a small smile appeared on his lips. "But you should certainly ask that question once we get there."

The boy nodded, and looked back up to John.  "Mum doesn't like it when he lets me read _The Hardy Boys_.  She says it will rot my brain.  Turn me into a detective."

John gave a shrug.  "It is a dangerous operation."  A thought occurred to him in that moment, and he turned his gaze to Sherlock. Sherlock was agitated, wiping rain from his forehead and pacing.  Awkward, unsteady.  Utterly unlike the calm, cool detective John knew his friend truly was.

"Is his mother the one texting you?" he asked.

Sherlock looked up at John, surprised.  Surprised at the very idea?  Or surprised that John worked it out?

"Is she in trouble?  Is that why we're---"

"Sherlock?" A man's voice said from behind the detective.  They turned, and saw a small, olive-skinned man with a split lip. He dressed in baggy, loose-fitting clothes and worn out trainers.  He was strong, and something about him set John on edge.  "Sherlock Holmes?"

"Yes," Sherlock replied, straightening.  "Who's asking?"

The man nodded.  "Message from Vic."

There was a sharp intake next to John, and the boy suddenly cried out: "He's got a knife!"

John looked back, just in time to see the man grab a knife from his back pocket and thrust it towards Sherlock.  Sherlock side-stepped it in time, catching the man's wrist and twisting it, turning the knife back on the man, slicing his side.  The man cried out, but shoved his shoulder into Sherlock's chest, knocking him forward.

John went onto autopilot.  Knife. Sherlock.  Danger.  He dropped the boy's hand and stepped forward, slamming his foot down on the man's tibia. He felt a satisfying movement of the bone, and his front palm moved up, breaking the man's nose easily. The man swung with the knife, and John threw his elbow into the man's solar plexus.  He stumbled, and John backhanded the knife from his hand.

"Duck!" the boy cried.  John did as instructed, just as an unexpected punch came from the injured man. John threw another elbow, and the man fell backwards.  He scrambled to his feet and bolted.  John started forward, but felt a hand on his arm.

"Don't," Sherlock said.  "He's just the messenger.  He's not who we're after."

"Yes he is," the boy said.

"What?" Sherlock snapped, turning.

The boy was shaking.  Not violently, but just enough that John could tell he was truly frightened.  All the same, he stood his ground, puffed up his chest, and pointed.

"The witnesses saw wrong.  That's your murderer!"

John's eyebrows went up.  "What? I don't understand."

"The information on the fireplace had the victims, had the witnesses," the boy said.  "But they were all missing one important thing.  A blonde man would never have gotten into the Casa Sotelio. It's Italian! Nationally! Organized crime! He'd have stood out, been _wrong!_ He'd have never been able to stalk anybody!"

The boy pointed back behind them.  "The murder pictures above the mantel had a bunch of the photos of the crime scene.  They were recalling the pictures on the wall.  The singer for the week after.  They were so frightened, they remembered the only face that didn't belong, which was on the walls! The man's fingers were bandaged! Peeling nails, it's all in your notes! It was _him_ , I'm telling you!"

Sherlock straightened, and the expression on his face was firm, unforgiving. John was more than impressed with the boy's deductions, and he was also a bit put out by how clearly unhappy Sherlock was. Honestly, if the boy was that _incorrect_ or whatever, he could just say so, he didn't need to glare.

Instead, Sherlock said, "So your mother's been working with Organized Crime in Italy, then?"

The boy's eyes widened.  He took half a step backwards and all but cowered. John stepped forward, protective. He'd seen this sort of reaction before, in children who were truly afraid of their parents. It was unexpected, the boy seemed so fond of his mother, but that didn't mean it wasn't true.

"Don't tell her," the boy said.  "Please don't tell her, she'll be very cross with me. And then she might---"

"Be cross with you," Sherlock retorted.  "Don't try to throw me by acting like she hits you, it won't work.  I know her far too well, and we both know she's far too fond of you."

The boy sighed, and his stance relaxed.  John blinked.  Could a child that young be _that_ good at faking psychological terror?  Was _everyone_ apart from himself completely psychopathic? Did Sherlock not know even _one_ normal person?

John threw his hands up.  "Can someone tell me what the _hell_ is going on?"

As if on cue, Sherlock's mobile dinged the arrival of a text message. Sherlock opened it, and John peered over his arm.

_Bart's. Now.  Bring Dr. Watson and the boy. I have the money. I'm not armed, but it's up to you if this changes._

John looked up at Sherlock.

"Are we part of some sort of a ransom, Sherlock?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to Lyrangalia and Eileen (https://www.facebook.com/eileen.maksym) for betaing this chapter!
> 
> Next chapter due this weekend. :)


	3. The Last Coincidence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A ransom? A mysterious mother? Sherlock's strange new responsibility has a lot of mysteries surrounding him. What does it all mean?

"Are we part of some sort of a ransom, Sherlock?"

The question continued to burn in John's mind as the trio began towards Bart's Hospital. Sherlock went cold, stony, and more determined than ever. John was irritated, frustrated, and kept telling himself that he was seconds away from turning around and heading straight home. Mary was going to make chops for tea, and John kept telling himself he didn't need to know. He didn't need to know what was going on with this boy, what was going on with Sherlock.

And yet, he continued to follow. He cursed his own curiosity and idiotic loyalty to his best friend.

The boy, for his part, seemed perfectly calm. The rain had stopped, and he shook out his curly hair so it stood wildly on end as it dried. He walked calmly next to Sherlock down the street, the frightened shakes that took him only moments earlier during the fight with "Vic" now apparently gone. But how much of his emotions were real? How much of what he said or acted was true? Where the _hell_ did Sherlock find this kid?

"It's not a ransom," Sherlock finally said as they stopped, waiting for the walk sign that would take them to the street where Bart's waited for them. "It's a favor."

John's frustration seemed to vanish instantly, replaced by the curiosity that had been burning under the surface.

"What sort of a favor?" John demanded.

Sherlock sighed, straightening up and adjusting his coat collar so it stood upwards. God, that was so irritating. Turning up the coat collar, showing off his cheekbones. He did this when he wanted to look mysterious, to act as though he didn't _have_ to say what was going on.

The boy watched Sherlock, and reached up his own collar, turning out the raincoat so it stood upwards. He glanced up at Sherlock who, surprisingly, smiled. The boy's smile seemed to mirror Sherlock's in that moment, and John's mind began to whir, like a car whose engine only just got the firing it needed.

That curly dark hair, those strange blue eyes. John could even see high cheekbones under the boy's chubby cheeks. Could it be----?

No. No, absolutely not. Sherlock was the epitome of all things not-romantic. There was only one woman in the world that Sherlock had shown anything resembling romantic affection towards (and even that was pretty swallowed up with antagonism and loathing). That woman, Irene Adler, was dead. Nearly five years now, she'd been dead. No similarity in appearance or personality could possibly make this boy Sherlock's son, because there was no woman in the picture, nor would there ever be, if Sherlock had his way.

Romance, to Sherlock, was human error. He even pushed away women who might be good for him, who would appreciate him for who he was. Like Janine. Janine was kind, smart, just a bit rude. Even if romance with her seemed unbelievably out of place, she'd have been good for Sherlock. But he didn't want her. John felt nothing but pity for Mary's friend, used by everyone in her life because of her connection to the scum that was Charles Augustus Magnussen.

"Even if both of you try that trick, it's not working," John insisted. "What favor, Sherlock?"

Sherlock turned his head to face John, eyebrows knitted together and nose crinkled with annoyance, as though John had just destroyed something fragile and beautiful. John didn't want to feel guilty (after all, how could he considering he had _no bloody idea_ what was going on with Sherlock and this boy), but he did.

"A long-owed one," Sherlock said.

God, this was a nightmare. Sherlock wasn't even trying to make this---No, this was important and needed to be more than just a thought in John's head.

"You're not even trying to make this easy, are you?" John snapped. "Mysterious texts you won't tell me about. Taking this boy out in order to protect him, and now you're taking him for money, and I'm just supposed to go along with it?"

Sherlock shook his head. "You have all the pieces of information, John, but you're just not piecing it together!"

"Oh, so it's my fault you're being purposefully mysterious?" John challenged. "I'm not playing the deducing game, Sherlock! Put yourself in my bloody shoes and tell me what you'd think in my place!"

Sherlock paused, considered, and then shook his head. "Can't make my mind work that slowly."

"You _dickhead!_ " John looked to the boy, and slapped a hand over his own mouth. "I mean you---are being...very…unpleasant!"

The boy shrugged. "I don't think he has all the information," he told Sherlock. "You're being too hard on him."

Sherlock looked down at the boy, his voice still incredibly annoyed. "Am I?"

The boy nodded, and then looked back to John. "The money is for her, not for him."

" _Her_?" John demanded. Sherlock glared.

"He is taking me to my Mother," the boy said. The light changed. The boy walked on, without either Sherlock or John leading the way.

John's eyes followed the boy, then turned back to Sherlock. Sherlock's eyes were piercing, but John still couldn't read them. Even in their time back together since his "death", John felt like he'd suddenly lost something between them. Some railway they both rode on had been derailed and their minds were on different paths now. Would they ever get it back? Would either of them give in enough to let it come back?

The light changed again, and John broke eye contact first, looking out into the road. The boy was gone.

"Where is he?" he said, startled.

That piercing look on Sherlock's face vanished instantly, replaced by something akin to panic. He looked across the street, and then darted outwards, into traffic.

"Nero!" Sherlock shouted. "Nero, where are you?"

"Nero?" John asked aloud, though he was certain that Sherlock couldn't hear him. As in the Roman emperor? Little wonder the boy had lied about his name when asked. No time for being silly, though. Sherlock weaved through traffic, and John had no choice but to follow. Well, he had a choice, but it was a terrible choice. The only choice was to follow Sherlock and find this "Nero" before either of them got themselves killed.

Sherlock made it to the other side and began racing down the street towards the hospital. Perhaps he believed the boy would make it there without their assistance? Perhaps he thought he might not know the way, John couldn't tell. Sherlock's panicked voice calling out that unusual name rang ahead of him, and John could only follow suit.

"Nero!" John called. "Where did you go? Nero!"

They were half a block towards the hospital when Sherlock found it, lying on the side of the pavement. The black raincoat, crumpled in a small, untidy pile. Sherlock grasped it, and stepped out onto the street, looking back and forth for some sign of what might've happened.

"Is that---?" John began.

"Yes," Sherlock said. "Yes, it's his." His voice was odd. Almost confused, like something this _obvious_ and horrible couldn't happen to him. Sherlock could be so _stupid_ at times---but, then again, John realized how stupid he could be. A little boy, gone in an instant, because John was too busy staring down his best friend.

John pulled out his mobile. "I'll call the police."

"You can't call the police," Sherlock snapped. "The police will find his mother."

"So, that's sort of the point, Sherlock!" John retorted. "His mother needs to know her son has been kidnapped!"

Sherlock froze, and his expression became hopeless. Lost. Frightened. There were very few times in their friendship that John genuinely believed Sherlock didn't know what to do. Whatever Nero's mother had done, it meant that Sherlock was willing to give up her son for her. Give up an innocent child for her. That wasn't a favor to be paid, that was---well, if it were anyone but Sherlock Holmes, John would have said it was love.

All the pieces, Sherlock had said. Boy with Mycroft's build but Sherlock's hair color, with an unusually high intellect. Sherlock's affection for the child, the boy's obvious affection towards him. A mysterious mother, not even remotely in the picture, and strange, secretive texts. Again, if it had been anyone but Sherlock Holmes---

And what was it Sherlock had said? Once you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.

"Sherlock," John said, trying to keep his voice level, calm. "Is Nero---?"

"What, John?" Sherlock turned to face him. "Missing? Because I think we both know---"

" _Is Nero_ ," John began again, voice firmer. He could not believe he was asking this, but it was the only thing he _could_ ask. " _Your_ son?"

Another shift came to Sherlock's expression. Something defeated? No, something accepting, perhaps. God, the man had so many miniscule and unreadable expressions, and John couldn't catalogue them. He couldn't file them all away to understand them in a moment like this. What the _bloody hell_ was Sherlock trying to say with his eyes?

John had seen Sherlock lost before. He'd seen Sherlock aggravated and confused. He'd seen Sherlock without a hope in the universe left for them, but he'd never seen him like this. It was as though John's best friend had been transported into a realm completely different from his own, and there was nothing that could pull him out of it.

"Yes."

The word came out cool, calm. Everything that Sherlock's face wasn't.

John took a step back, as though he'd been struck. 'Yes' was not the answer John had really and truly expected, even if all of the evidence lined up. Sherlock had a child? That precocious, obnoxious, clearly brilliant child? No, wait, one step backwards. Sherlock had had _sexual intercourse_? With a person? Ever? And therefore created a living being? A living, missing being?

"John," Sherlock said, dropping the raincoat and reaching out to take John's shoulders with his hands. "We _have_ to find him before someone else works that out."

John nodded, very slowly. "That's why you don't want to call the police, why you don't want him to meet Mycroft. You don't want your brother to influence him."

" _Take_ him," Sherlock corrected. "Because if anyone would, it would be my brother. Save him from his junkie father, or whatever excuse he'd make for playing house."

He looked back, towards the hospital, and then up, towards the rooftop. Oh, god. John had forgotten. The meeting on the roof. The meeting with Nero's mother. The woman that Sherlock----well, John would be lying if he said he wasn't extremely interested in who she was.

"We have to get her," John said, pulling from Sherlock's grip and starting towards the hospital. "We have to tell her!"

Sherlock wasn't following. He was still stunned. Still completely flabbergasted that this had happened. The raincoat had fallen to the ground, and Sherlock bent to pick it up, to hold it in his hands, firmly.

"She's not going to take it well," he said.

John rolled his eyes. "Yes, big surprise. Come on, Sherlock. We'll get her, and we'll get---" God, was he really saying this? "---your son back."

Sherlock began moving before John did this time, at a full sprint towards the hospital. They rushed past Mike, who tried to wave them a feeble hello, and started towards the stairs. Sherlock's long legs took them two at a time, while John stumbled behind.

How very like this situation, John thought. How many signs did John miss? How many times had Sherlock's son been living upstairs in John's room without John having any idea? How long did Sherlock know about this? And now, most importantly, where was the boy?

Sherlock made it to the roof door before John did, but stopped as his hand went for the handle. John was about to call up, demand why he'd stopped, but it made sense: How long had it been since Sherlock had seen his son's mother? And now, he had to go up there, tell her that he was missing. John would have given some pause too, he thought. To say the least.

Only when John was immediately behind Sherlock did the detective turn the handle, pushing open the door. The rooftop was wet from the rain, silent. A few structures sat on the roof, including a decaying tribute to Sherlock that his fans had kept going, even after Sherlock's return from the dead.

Next to the structure stood a woman, her back to John and Sherlock. She was thin, dressed in a long, green coat that fell to her knees. Her hair was down her back, dark and curly; she'd let it get wet as it rained. Knowing who she was to Sherlock, and knowing what they had to tell her, she looked almost ethereal, completely strange and foreign, much like the detective himself.

"You're late," she said.

That voice. There weren't a lot of voices that John would say he recognized above all others, but that one was unmistakable. He heard it cooed in his best friend's ear, heard it moaned out of his mobile phone for months. That voice was _impossible_ , because it belonged to someone who had died five years ago.

Five years. She died in Karachi, and Mycroft had said it would take Sherlock Holmes to fool him. What if she hadn't died in Karachi? What if then---and then nine months later---Oh, god.

"Irene Adler?" John breathed, voice uncomprehending.

The woman turned, and it was her. She had a cut on her lower lip, and her face was make-up free, hair still damp from the rain…but it was unmistakably her. The one Sherlock Holmes referred to as "the Woman". John had always believed he never spoke her name out of hatred, but Mycroft had said that it was, perhaps, out of reverence.

Irene Adler was alive.

"Good evening, Dr. Watson," she said.


	4. Too Many Women

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time to face the horrible news: Nero is missing. What will Irene do? Who is messaging John Watson for ransom? And what does this all have to do with Molly Hooper?

Irene Adler was alive.

"Good evening, Dr. Watson," she said.

Of the people John expected he would see, and the voices he expected to be hearing---well, she was the last on the list. Maybe some famous but psychopathic ballerina or strange assassin from another planet, those were the people who might produce a child with Sherlock Holmes. But, no. No, he got even worse. Irene Adler.

"You're alive," John said, lamely.

"Clearly," Sherlock snapped, taking a few steps towards her.

She uncrossed her arms and took a step towards John. She was even more difficult to read than Sherlock, her face always layered with lies and plots that were well beyond what John would comprehend, let alone anticipate. Talking with her was like playing chess with Sherlock: an exercise in futility.

"I normally schedule these visits when you're away," she said. "But I'm afraid that this time there was no scheduling room."

"But there was room to play dress-up with various clothing to prove a point," Sherlock said. "Or was it your intention to make my deductions appear incompetent in front of him?"

'Him', John figured, meant her and Sherlock's son. John, as Sherlock was well aware, would never think of Sherlock's deductions as anything but brilliant. But Irene Adler appeared to not want her son to follow in his father's footsteps.

"You need humility before you two spend time together," she replied, lifting her shoulders in a gentle shrug. "My gift to you."

John interjected. "But you're alive!"

Irene turned to John, a sympathetic smile on her face. It was the same smile, John realized, that Nero had given him earlier in the day, when Sherlock had insulted his intelligence. Irene's was, of course, just a shade more condescending, but that's how she was.

"Yes," she replied. "I like having people exactly when I need them."

"And, what? Sherlock was that person, then?"

Sherlock snorted. "More or less." What did that mean? What did any of this mean? Why were they all so incredibly difficult?

"Does Mycroft know you're alive?" John demanded.

"Most definitely," Sherlock answered for her. "If he didn't work it out in Karachi, he must know by now."

John shook his head and looked back to Irene. "Then why did he tell me you were dead?"

Irene gestured towards Sherlock. "Why did you tell him that I wasn't?"

John looked back at Sherlock, standing there like a wounded puppy, with his wet hair and his turned up collar and his broken nose that needed to be set. Even now, he could remember the way Sherlock mourned over Irene after he thought she'd died at Christmas. The way he'd paced the flat, wrote sad music that sounded like a strange, pulsing heartbeat. The way he ate nothing and just (for lack of a better word) pined. John couldn't explain to Sherlock what a broken heart felt like. He could only try to empathize with the way he grieved. When Mycroft said that Irene Adler was dead, the only thing John could think was he wanted to spare Sherlock that agony again. Let him live peacefully in blissful ignorance.

"I didn't think he'd take it well," John said.

Irene raised an eyebrow and nodded, as though that answered his question.

"No," John said, pointing at her. "No, you can't start doing that, too. I won't be able to deal with it if you're both doing that."

"Doing what?" Irene asked, calmly.

"He says I do a thing with my face," Sherlock answered.

She looked over to Sherlock. "You do a lot of things with your face."

"A very specific thing, where he doesn't understand and doesn't like the fact that I do."

"And now I'm doing that, am I?" She smirked. It was that devilish smirk John remembered from her flat, where she stood before him, completely nude, unwilling to move until his eyes drifted where she wanted them to. In this moment, that smirk split the cut on her lip, and a tiny line of blood began moving down her chin.

"Where's my son?" she asked Sherlock, pointedly. "We have to leave."

"Gone," Sherlock replied, voice cold. He held up the raincoat.

"Gone?" she demanded. Her smile vanished. It wasn't confusion on her face, as it had been with Sherlock. She didn't wear naked fear the way he did. Her nudity was always calculated and pointed. Emotions were always veiled. John couldn't tell if she was afraid, irritated, or just annoyed that the amusing conversation was suddenly over. She reached out, taking the wet coat and holding it in her pale hands.

"About ten minutes ago," John said. "No sign of him."

"Was it him?" she asked Sherlock.

"Him?" John asked. "Who, Mycroft?"

"I don't know," Sherlock replied. "He doesn't know he exists yet."

"But you did pick a place we know Mycroft watches," John interjected.

Both Irene and Sherlock turned to face John. They both wore identical blank expressions that could have meant _absolutely anything_ and were therefore immensely annoying.

"You said Anthea watches Bart's to see Molly," John said. "So we know she watches this place."

"Anthea," Irene repeated, not comprehending.

"She went by Jessica when you met her," Sherlock replied.

"Oh, _her_ ," Irene purred. "Lovely woman. Very limber."

John's eyebrows hit his hairline. He had no opinion of Anthea's sexuality, but he did know that Irene Adler was able to seduce anyone she wanted, given the time. She was also regularly surrounded by beautiful women. He shouldn't have been surprised if Anthea was a…conquest? Was that the right word? For all John knew, she could have been a bargaining chip or a weekend holiday, too. Irene was impossible to understand. The only thing John and Irene shared, besides a love of beautiful women, was a mutual adoration for Sherlock Holmes. He supposed, in a way, that was enough.

"Do the people who are after you know he exists?" Sherlock demanded.

"No," Irene replied, her voice all business again. "He always stayed in the hotels, or with a friend."

"Your lady friends are rarely trustworthy," Sherlock said. There was, to John's surprise, no sound of jealousy in Sherlock's voice. If John had found that Mary had a variety of "friends" on the side, even women (despite how extremely sexy that would be) he'd be out of his mind with jealousy. Not Sherlock.

"I wouldn't leave him with one of them, they'd think we were a couple, sharing a child," Irene replied. "And they always want to know who the father is."

"Lovely as this conversation is," John said. "We've got a five year old boy out there in danger. We need to get a hold of Greg or the police or anyone who might be able to find him."

Sherlock nodded, and turned away from Irene, back towards the door. Her hand shot out to grab his wrist. Her nails were still long, still painted that bright, shiny red. Despite how calm and relaxed her face was, her grip on Sherlock's wrist was white-knuckled. A vice.

"If your brother has him----"

"We'll find him," John tried to say.

Sherlock all but ignored John, eyes on Irene Adler. His "Woman". His eyes were locked on hers, their bodies only a few inches apart. John felt very much like he wasn't wanted in this situation, and that even if he'd been dancing around naked, the two of them wouldn't notice his existence.

"Mycroft isn't nearly as dangerous as the people after you," Sherlock said.

"I can predict them, I can't predict your brother," she retorted. Her nails dug into Sherlock's wrist, but he didn't so much as flinch.

"I will get him back," Sherlock said.

"If you don't," she warned, "I won't hesitate to sell out all of the secrets I know about you to make certain _I_ do."

Sherlock took in a sharp breath. It wasn't frightened or even in pain. No, it was---as creepy and strange as it felt to John, it was almost _aroused_. That was _not_ a sound he ever expected to hear Sherlock Holmes make. It was also a sound he really hoped he never heard again. What the hell was wrong with the two of them?

John's phone went off. It was half four, Mary shouldn't be texting so soon. He looked away from the strange couple, standing off on the rooftop the way they were, and down at his phone.

"Who _is_ after you?" John heard Sherlock ask Irene.

"Killers," she replied, flippantly. "I thought you were a detective."

"Even detectives can't make bricks without clay," Sherlock responded.

"Sherlock," John interjected.

"What do they have to do with Italy and the crime families there?" Sherlock asked.

She smiled. "You've been talking to Nero, haven't you? He listens to my phone conversations far too well."

"I had a visit paid to me by one of them," Sherlock said.

"Is that who broke your nose?"

"It's not broken."

"Sherlock---" John attempted again.

"I think it is, dear," Irene continued.

"And who split your lip?" Sherlock asked. "Long fingers, well muscled, must've been a man, tall, at least---"

"Sherlock!" John said, firmly. "Can you two stop--- _flirting_ and take a look at this."

He held up his phone, and Sherlock stepped away from Irene, who released his wrist. Little half-moon marks stood out red on Sherlock's pale skin, but he paid them no notice.

The text was simple. Direct.

_I think you're missing something. Give me what I want, and you can have him back. –A_

"A?" Irene asked.

"Anthea," Sherlock replied. "That means we have less than an hour before Mycroft will be here. She won't have kept this from him."

"So she's now ransoming Nero?" John asked. "What for? What does she want?"

Sherlock took a deep breath. "Oh, I know exactly what she wants."

.

Molly Hooper was always working. This was both her downfall and the delight of Sherlock Holmes. By always being around, she could never disappoint when he needed a favor. It actually disgusted John, regularly, how often Sherlock would take advantage of Molly's good nature. He would stay at her house and make her sleep on the sofa, or eat the last of her lunch, or just take up all of her time, with the thought that if she didn't want to, she'd simply say no.

John had yet to make Sherlock understand that it wasn't in Molly's nature to say no. He also had yet to make Molly understand that Sherlock would never just understand that he was being inappropriate. If only John could have some friend that would be worth Molly's time that she might be interested in. Her crush on Sherlock had to be something she'd grow out of over time, right? Though, then again, Sally Donovan had told John his "crush" on Sherlock would be something that he'd grow out of, too. How wrong she was.

Molly was in the middle of an autopsy when Sherlock sauntered into the morgue. Even elbow-deep in someone's entrails, she still seemed to brighten up when the detective entered the room.

"Molly!" Sherlock said. "Need a favor."

Behind him, Irene and John entered as well. John was used to the surroundings of Bart's morgue, and Irene appeared completely unaffected by the corpse or the smell. Whether that was because of personal comfort, or her ability to shut off her own facial expressions was something John couldn't determine.

"Sherlock!" Molly said. "Oh my god, what happened to your nose?"

John sighed. "It's broken."

"It's not," Sherlock retorted. "Molly. Favor. Now."

Molly peered at Sherlock through her safety glasses. "I'm---sort of in the middle of---"

"Female, forty-three, accidental poisoning by her dog," Sherlock determined, still standing at a short distance. "That solved, we do need your assistance."

"Sorry," John interjected. "Wait, how do you know this?"

"Little scratch marks on the victim's lower feet, shows a small dog. Bluish tinge around the exterior of the stomach, shows lack of blood, probably something consumed by the location. Victim was an amateur chemist, and not a good one, judging by the tragic color of blonde she's tried to concoct for her hair, and a clumsy one, judging by the stains on her right hand. I'd wager her dog knocked something into a cup of tea or a vat of---is that salad in her stomach?"

"Boiled cabbage," Molly confirmed, warily. "B-But I'm not solving this, I'm just doing the preliminary---"

Sherlock's voice became serious. "Molly, this is a matter of life and death, we need you."

Molly lowered the forceps in her hand and straightened. Despite how often Sherlock used that line (and it was often, everything from "I need a place to stay, matter of life or death" to "I need a cup of coffee, matter of life or death") she always took it seriously.

"Clean up, you're going to meet someone," Sherlock instructed. He turned towards Irene. "Woman, loan her your lipstick."

Molly pulled off her bloodied gloves and turned back to Irene, who had procured the desired lipstick from her pocket. Dark red, blunt at the end from regular use. Molly paused as she reached for it.

"Do I know you?" she asked. "You look---"

"You met one of my associates once," Irene said. "Under tragic circumstance."

John remembered the situation well. Sherlock had left for the morgue, and returned with his heart broken over what he believed was Irene's death. Not the first time that John had mistakenly assumed that Irene Adler was easy to kill, it appeared.

Molly didn't register this, or perhaps the situation was so long ago that she had forgotten. Of course, she'd never seen the dead woman's face, just her body. John had wondered who Irene had found to replace her in that moment. Was it Kate? Was it someone else? Had she already been dead, or did Irene have her killed just to confuse Sherlock? There were few people John would consider capable of something like that, and Irene Adler was, in fact, one of them. 

Irene took a step forward, reaching out to pull the glasses off of Molly's face.

"Stand still, pet," she said. "I'll take care of this."

Molly did as instructed, standing awkwardly as Irene dabbed a little of the lipstick onto her own forefinger and began tracing Molly's lips with the bright color. She also daubed a little on Molly's cheeks, bringing warmth to her usually pale face. Her touch was gentle, a soft caress that made John feel just a little uncomfortable watching. Molly, for her part, began to blush. Irene's small smile turned into a predatory smirk. John had the distinct impression that, given the opportunity, Irene would show Molly a thing or two about blushing.

"Woman," Sherlock called from across the room. His voice was a warning tone.

Was he jealous? John wondered. Irene Adler never seemed to be one for monogamy, but she also professed to having a certain sexuality that wouldn't align with a relationship with Sherlock. Were they in a relationship? Did they just have a child together and now lived their own lives? Did Sherlock want these babysitting…adventures? There were so many questions to be asked, and John knew very well that neither of the people involved would be willing to answer them.

John's phone made a noise.

_Forty-five minutes. He seems really unhappy in this car, and I think the drugs are wearing off. –A_

"She's drugged him!" John said, stunned. "Apparently he's locked in the car."

"It hardly matters," Sherlock said. "What she wants is easily given."

"What sort of drugs?" Irene asked, reaching up and unpinning Molly's hair. She twirled a few strands of Molly's hair around her fingers, creating the look of soft ringlets.

"How should I know?" Sherlock demanded.

"Because of your extreme proficiency with them," Irene snapped in response. "Try to remember, Mr. Holmes, that despite his size, he's only four. He could be easily, _seriously_ hurt."

Sherlock waved that idea off with his hand. "He'll be fine."

Irene capped her lipstick with the sharp efficiency of someone snapping the safety back on their gun. "Oh, for goodness sake."

"What does she want?" John demanded. "Anthea. What does she want?

"To be introduced to someone she has been watching a very long time." Sherlock's gaze turned to Molly who, despite the blood on her lab coat, looked as though she'd been preparing to go out for an evening out. How did Irene manage that?

Irene turned to John. "Now, we have to do this _intelligently_."

"I thought we were doing it intelligently," Sherlock piped up.

Irene ignored him. "Do exactly as I say."

.

Anthea didn't wear a lot of makeup, as far as John knew. He did learn, however, that she wore a pinkish shade that came in a little tube. He learned this as he was the first to appear at the car outside of Bart's, where Anthea was primping herself in the window reflection.

She turned, and the expectant look on her face vanished with something akin to confusion. God, but she was still really _hot_ , wasn't she? John still couldn't believe he tried to chat her up, even when he was high on adrenaline after that first meeting with Mycroft.

"Hello," John said.

"Hi," she replied, still confused.

"I'm John Watson, we've met," he said. "Half a dozen times or so?"

She blinked, and there was still absolutely no recognition in her face. "Oh!"

John shook his head. "Anyway, Sherlock's bringing her out, should we just do a straight exchange there? How do we know that you're going to hand him over once we've introduced you to Molly?"

At Molly's name, Anthea's expression changed. Apparently, this was something she'd been planning for. John shouldn't have been surprised, he supposed. Mycroft wouldn't have had just anyone working for him. She had to be devious, and willing to kidnap a child in order to secure a date.

"I don't want him," Anthea said. "Too much responsibility. And I want the car clear. You have nothing to worry about."

"And you won't tell Mycroft?" John asked.

A pause. "Sure."

"You've already told him."

"Yeah."

John sighed, and turned back to the door, where he gestured for Molly. Molly now wore high-heeled black shoes that were exactly one size too large for her feet, as well as a touch of trypan blue on her eyelids. Anthea could have been mugged by ten very large men and she probably wouldn't have noticed, her eyes were all on the morgue attendant wobbling towards her.

Of course, in the last possible second, Molly stumbled, and Anthea leapt forward to catch her. In the same instant, Sherlock Holmes and a barefoot Irene Adler stepped around the back end of the car, pulling the door open.

This was all part of the plan. Irene was convinced that Mycroft and any of his associates were not trustworthy (something that no one in the room could really disagree with), and therefore she needed a distraction while herself and Sherlock reclaimed Nero. It was, actually, a fairly foolproof plan. Except…

"John," Sherlock said, staring into the car.

"What?" John said. "What is it?" Anthea was distracted by talking to a bewildered Molly Hooper, so John stepped around, staring where Sherlock and Irene were.

Nero was not in the car. Vic, bloodied and confused, sat gazing up at them.

"Where is he?" Irene breathed. For the first time, John could sense real fear in her voice. He had never seen Irene Adler as a mother, but now he could see that she just fit the role in her own way. Her son became a protégé of sorts, and now he was lost on the battlefield. Her moment of fear---that strange, emotional nudity---was gone in an instant, and she was armored again, ready to head out and find her son.

"We're going to find him," Sherlock assured her. He reached out, placing his arm on her shoulder. Irene shrugged it off, stepping away from the car.

John's phone rang. _Again_. What was he, now? Some sort of phone operating---

_Mary Watson calling…_

John sighed. He flipped the phone on. "Mary, sorry, now's not the best time---"

"I think you'll want to hear me out," she said. "Because you're never going to guess who's eating pie in our kitchen right now."


	5. Instead of Evidence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nero is found and that means the game can continue---or does it? John begins to notice a strange animosity between himself and Irene...what is she planning? Can she be trusted?
> 
> And what does this have to do with a bunch of American dollar bills?

"He's _where?_ "

The door to 221B slammed behind Irene as she followed John (who was subsequently following one Sherlock Holmes) up the stairs to their flat. No, John corrected himself. Not _their_ flat. It was Sherlock's flat. Sherlock's flat that he apparently shared occasionally with his son.

Oh, god. Did he share it with Irene Adler, as well? Did she stay over? Did they make annoying half-flirty faces at each other on a semiregular basis?

" _Dr. Watson!_ " Irene snapped. She was following behind John, which was a bit disconcerting at first. John always saw her as a leader, walking over everyone with those ridiculous high heels, not as the sort to stray behind. Maybe her bare feet weren’t handling the walk back from Bart’s all that well. The sharp tone to her voice isn't something he's heard before.

It wasn't that John didn't like Sherlock's "Woman". No, scratch that. The real problem with Irene Adler was that John Watson really just didn't like her. She was devious, manipulative, too smart for her own good, and she basically tore Sherlock's heart through a cheese grater in order to better herself. John didn't like her at all. And now, after everything and all these years, she was back and alive and apparently the mother of Sherlock's child.

The child she was now asking about. Well, demanding an answer about, actually.

"He took a bloody cab to my house and now my wife's feeding him pies and god knows what they're talking about," John replied. "Orchids, maybe." He looked back into the flat at Sherlock. "How did he figure out where I live?"

“I don’t understand why you let him leave his raincoat,” Irene snapped up in Sherlock’s direction. “There’s supposed to be rain tomorrow, too.”

“I didn’t ask him to leave without his coat, Woman,” Sherlock retorted, dropping himself down in front of his laptop.

“He was trying to leave you a message,” she replied. John got the distinct impression that Irene was being difficult for its own sake.

John interjected. "Lovely as this parenting discussion is---Sherlock, what are we doing back here? Shouldn't we be going back, picking him up from Mary before Mycroft finds him?" Something that felt a bit like jealousy was welling in John's chest. He hated feeling like the odd man out, but it was his blog post "The Woman" all over again, with them tossing words back and forth over John's head.

Sherlock waved a hand in John's direction. "He'll be fine with Mary while we get cleaned up. Woman! Do you have that money?"

Irene appeared next to Sherlock again, this time untucking a bundle of bills from her coat pocket. American money, stacked up and wrapped in plastic. It was tied with a red band, and there was a business card tucked in it as well. Something for fingerprints, maybe? Sherlock apparently knew, because he took the package easily, already moving like he knew what he was looking for.

"That's---is that the money you were talking about in the texts?" John asked.

"Yes," Irene replied. "Came from a Canadian with banking experience in New York. I knew what he liked. He liked informing me of how many things he could buy with just one of those dollar bills."

Buy a lot with dollar bills? Single dollars? That seemed ridiculous to John.

Sherlock slipped on a pair of gloves and began extracting the bills. The first one, he held up to the laptop screen, examining its shape in comparison to the bill he had procured online. He leapt up, running over to the chemistry set in the kitchen. He tapped on a Bunsen burner and held the bill over it. It erupted in blue flame.

"Bit of a show-off, then?" John asked. He meant the Canadian, but he could have easily meant Sherlock, as well.

"It wouldn't have meant anything, if he didn't---" Irene paused, and the look on her face was one of deep disgust. Disgust at what? At first, John thought it might be what the man did, but then he realized that wouldn't have been worthy of her irritation. No, she was disgusted at _herself_ for speaking so much.

"You know you can tell me, right?" John said. "I'm here to help."

Irene kept her eyes on Sherlock, who was now grinding the burned bill up with a mortar and pestle.

"I don't trust just anyone," she responded.

John looked back at Sherlock. Sherlock wasn't questioning this; he was just dripping some sort of clear chemical into the mixture. Of all the people in the entire world that Irene Adler had under her finger, she came back to Sherlock Holmes. It wasn't just because of their son, it couldn't be.

"You trust Sherlock," John said, looking back at Irene.

She turned to look at John, and her expression was cold. He had always known Irene Adler when she was playing a game, pretending to be someone else around John. He hadn't seen her for real, hadn't had a taste of that cruelty that Sherlock described from the day he turned her over to Mycroft. Now, John really wished he wasn't the focus of her stare. It was…unnerving.

"I don't trust _you_ ," she replied. Her voice was low. Lower than it had been, John realized. It was clear this was not something that was meant for Sherlock to hear. A small smile appeared at the edge of John's lips. Of course Sherlock wasn't meant to hear it. He'd be insulted on John's behalf. Even the great Irene Adler wouldn't be able to insult John, Sherlock's best friend. Something that felt very like pride burst through that thing in John's chest that wasn't quite jealousy.

He looked back at Sherlock, his confidence renewed. "And the last time I saw you, you were taking Sherlock for everything he had. I don't know what's happened between the two of you in the last five years, but nothing you've done---including ending up with a little miniature version of him running around in my house while I'm not there---is going to change what I saw. So consider the feeling mutual."

John was very displeased to realize that his own voice was lowered. It shouldn't have mattered if Sherlock heard John express his distrust of Irene Adler…except that it did. This was the mother of Sherlock's child. God, if that didn't garner some trust from Sherlock, what did? The confidence John felt a moment earlier deflated, and when he looked back at Irene, her cold stare only seemed that much colder.

"John! I need you to hold this over the flame for five minutes," Sherlock announced, holding up a small, glass apparatus that looked unsurprisingly like something one would smoke a drug in. In it was the mashed money-paste. With the hope that this wasn't some really unusual way of getting high, John walked to the kitchen and did as instructed. He held metal tongs to the glass apparatus and held it over the flame.

"I assume you want me to change," Irene said, turning her gaze back to Sherlock.

"I assume you're not wearing anything under that coat," Sherlock responded, voice as cool as Irene's gaze.

"And if I was?"

"I have something you can wear," Sherlock said, turning and heading towards the bedroom door. Irene shot one more look at John---one of those supremely self-satisfied smiles she seemed to favor---before following Sherlock.

John stood, feeling extremely useless, holding the glass over the flame. Five minutes, Sherlock had said. What would Irene Adler do with Sherlock Holmes in the five minutes that John was going to hold this? Would she try seducing him? Would she honestly seduce him with John in the flat? And why the hell wasn't she wearing any clothes underneath her coat?

He looked down at his watch. He could hear Sherlock's deep baritone voice resonating from the other room, followed by the feminine but equally deep voice of Irene Adler. The door to Sherlock's room was open, but John had a feeling that wouldn't stop Irene, if she was trying to prove a point.

Is that what this was about? Was she trying to prove a point? She told John she scheduled these "visits" around John himself, making certain not to appear when John was around. Why? Was she trying to subjugate Sherlock's trust? Did she have something else planned throughout all of this?

How did this even happen? He tried not to imagine what it would be like to seduce Sherlock Holmes. He watched Irene tease and flirt from across a room, but he couldn't imagine anyone actually _touching_ Sherlock. It was bizarre and uncomfortable enough watching Janine kiss Sherlock while he was pretending to be her boyfriend, what would it be like if Sherlock was actually _invested?_ Could Sherlock even feel one of those higher sexual passions for someone?

Maybe John would just convince himself some sort of a sperm donor clinic was involved in the whole situation.

Three minutes, forty-five seconds. Did it need to be exactly five minutes? John could hear the springs on Sherlock's bed creak. John felt like saying something very loudly, just to remind the two that he was still here, still holding this bloody stupid paste that was starting to bubble and hiss. John was no fool when it came to chemistry---what did Sherlock put in this concoction?

Four minutes, five seconds. There was the slamming of a door. The bedroom door? Did Irene push Sherlock onto the bed, and then reach over to shut the door, slam it with a finality, that she was bedding Sherlock----apparently _again?_ No, no, that was the closet door. John made a personal goal to thrust out all of his thoughts about whatever sexual life was between Sherlock and Irene, focus more on what her return meant to the consulting detective’s life.

He could hear Irene's voice now, but not Sherlock's. Was his voice too low for John to hear, or was Irene commanding Sherlock's attention? She could do that, John knew. He watched her command Sherlock with only a few looks and a crook of her finger. Maybe it wasn't so surprising that something had happened between them. Only a few hours ago, John had been thinking that Irene Adler was the only woman he could imagine Sherlock in something resembling a romantic relationship with.

Four minutes, forty-five seconds. John could step away from the Bunsen burner, right? Right? He felt his feet frozen to the floor. God, this was irritating. He couldn't lie to Sherlock, not when he was trying to prove his loyalty over Irene's. And that meant waiting the additional 15 seconds with this thing over the flame. No matter how incredibly slow those 15 seconds were.

There was a laugh in the other room. Irene's voice. Four minutes, fifty-one seconds. He could step away now. Now. Dammit.

At exactly five minutes, John gently placed the apparatus down on the table and stepped towards Sherlock's room. The door was still open, and he could see a reflection of Irene standing near the closet from Sherlock's full-length mirror. She wore a dark blue dress and high heels, both of which Sherlock apparently had in his possession, for some reason. They definitely didn't belong to Janine, not heels that high. Sherlock's leg was visible from the doorway, he was sitting on the bed as she dressed.

Irene was still laughing. "'Seven Times a Night in Baker Street was still my favorite of the lot," she said, stepping away from the reflection to a part of the room that John couldn't see. "I thought about framing it and hanging it in my bedroom."

"That one was mostly a picture of her," John could hear Sherlock say.

"And what a lovely one she was," Irene replied, her voice a purr. "Honestly, I don't know where you find them."

"What do you mean?"

"That Dr. Hooper, too," Irene responded, her voice sounding a little echoed. She must have been in the bathroom, probably looking at the cut on her lip. "Don't pretend that you haven't noticed, she's so enamored that even Nero would've deduced it."

Sherlock let out a low, put-upon sigh. Molly's schoolgirl crush on Sherlock was well known by everyone, including Sherlock. John was just a bit surprised that Irene had noticed. Maybe he shouldn't have been. She seemed to notice a lot more than John wanted to admit. Was that what the sigh was about? Since John couldn't see Sherlock's face, it was really impossible to read any sort of expression there. Of course, even if Sherlock had been looking at John dead in the face, it might have been impossible to read any expression there. The man was difficult in the best of situations, but then they both were.

"Do you think Nero is growing up a bit too fast?" John heard Sherlock ask. His voice was a little lower, raised just enough so that Irene could hear him in the bathroom. 

"What do you mean?" Irene asked, her own voice just slightly raised.

There was silence for a moment, and then Sherlock's foot shifted, tapping out awkwardly against the carpet. John did recognize this gesture. This was a sign that Sherlock was out of his element.

"He usually refers to you as Mother, me as Father. As requested by us," he said. "But last night, he fell asleep and I carried him upstairs and---"

There was the sound of high heels on tile, and then John saw her reflection in the mirror pass by to stand near where Sherlock sat on the bed.

"And?" she asked. Her voice was softer. That ice from before was gone, filled with a maternal concern, which didn't suit Irene's voice at all. It felt wrong, like whenever Sherlock would end up dirty at a crime scene and forgot to clean up. He was always clean and tailored. Irene was always cold and distant. This didn't feel right. It didn't feel right, John's brain informed him, but that didn't mean it was a ruse.

Sherlock was quiet for a moment, and then he said, quietly, "He said 'Thanks, Daddy.'"

Sherlock's tone wasn't something John understood, but it was something he had just begun to recognize. It reminded him of when John told Sherlock that he hadn't just magically appeared up in his own bed when he was young. It was off, strangely childlike, and entirely vulnerable. But of course Sherlock Holmes didn't know how to be a father. He barely knew how to be a grown-up, in John's experience. And now there was a child with his own vulnerabilities depending on Sherlock, expecting him to care for him. God, that must've been the most disorienting experience for the consulting detective.

There was a creaking sound of Sherlock's bed springs, and John could see one of Irene's long legs appearing over Sherlock's. She had moved to the bed and was straddling him, John figured. There was silence in that moment. What was happening? Was she hugging him? Oh, god, kissing him? Was this a familial moment that required kissing? Slowly? Tenderly? Passionately? Did Sherlock kiss Irene differently than he did when he was pretending to be in a relationship with Janine? This was an unbelievably inappropriate time for all of this, especially considering they only just found out where Nero was, and apparently Irene was still in some sort of danger. Didn’t they care about that? Or was Irene there right now, straddling him on the bed, stroking his face----

_Crack._

Sherlock let out a grunt of pain.

"Dr. Watson did tell you it was broken. But now it's set, so have him put a brace on it."

Her leg moved away from his, and John could hear the bedsprings give as she lifted herself from the bed.

"You could've given me a bit of warning," Sherlock grumbled.

"Is that money done cooking, Dr. Watson?" Irene called.

John straightened up and realized he'd been standing in the hallway a bit too long, overhearing their conversation. He tiptoed quickly back to the table, grabbed the apparatus, and held it over the flame. No, no, wait, Sherlock said five minutes. He put the concoction back on the table and turned back to the cabinets. Tea? He could be pretending to make tea. He grabbed a pot and the tea and turned around, just as the two of them appeared from the bedroom.

Sherlock's nose was bleeding again, but it was no longer at a strange, sickening angle in the middle. Irene's cut was now completely covered by a thin layer of makeup and dark red lipstick. She had also managed to retwist her hair into a tight but intricate bun at the nape of her neck. How did she do that, get dressed, reset Sherlock's nose, _and still_ manage not to break a sweat?

John held up the pot weakly.

"Tea?"

.

"The chemical composition on the money proves what you already suspected, Woman, that they originated in London," Sherlock explained as he, Irene, and John piled into a taxi.

"How did it explain that?" John asked, moving in next to Sherlock. "It looked like a pile of muddled…I don't know, _goo_ , even after it was heated up."

Irene moved in after John, tucking herself primly next to him. Her face was neutral, but her body was like a block of ice next to him. Right, well, even after talking with Sherlock, she was going to remain irritated at John. That was fine. John didn't care. What he did care about was that she absolutely insisted on being the one to carry John's gun. That was _his_ gun, and why Sherlock found her request amiable was _beyond_ him. She wasn't trustworthy, no matter how familiar she seemed with Sherlock back in the flat.

God, he wished it were yesterday, when things made sense.

"West Banks," Sherlock informed the driver.

"No," Irene said. "We're going to Dr. Watson's house."

Sherlock waved a hand. "Mary can watch Nero, it'll be fine."

"Dr. Watson." Irene turned to John. "Please give the driver your address."

John looked to Sherlock for approval, and suddenly realized he had unintentionally wedged himself between the two of them in this taxi. Oh, of all the horrible things that he could have decided to do.

Sherlock’s gaze was annoyed, but he nodded.

"Right," he said. "Okay." He gave the driver his address, and the taxi began moving. This was, what? A twenty minute drive? John could survive between Sherlock Holmes and Irene Adler for twenty minutes.

"Why did you say West Banks?" John asked, turning back to Sherlock.

"Blue flame," Sherlock replied. "When lit, there was a distinct blue flame from the debris left from where the money had been originally stored prior to its use."

"You mean being put in circulation?" John asked. 'Prior to its use'. What a strange way to put it.

"And the 'goo', as you so acutely put it, had crystalized salt at the rim of it, showing it had been stored in salt water. The rest of the material was easily determined by a cursory glance, which would make it out to be the West Banks," Sherlock said. He looked over to Irene. "Why are we going to John's house?"

"I want to see Nero," Irene responded. "I'm concerned."

"I've seen you concerned, Woman, and this is not one of those times," Sherlock snapped.

John took a deep breath. "I'll just pretend I'm not here, shall I?"

Irene ignored him. "I'm sure he's feeling very clever right now, but he—like you---needs to be reminded of what he can and cannot do! And leaving in a taxi for a place he's never been with a woman who----"

"My wife," John interjected. "That's my wife. And she's absolutely trustworthy."

"She looks it." Irene said, though her tone did not sound approving. "I did see pictures on your blog." 

"Oh, I forgot, you read the blog," John replied. After all of Irene's compliments on every female in Sherlock's life, John felt downright _insulted_ on Mary's behalf. Mary definitely deserved a comment about how lovely she was. Especially on their wedding day.

"Nero does. Better suited to his age group," Irene replied, tartly. "I find it _hilarious._ "

Oh, no. There were many things John could handle being insulted. But that blog was important to him. It was the lifeline that kept him going when Sherlock was pretending to be dead and---wait…

John pointed at Sherlock, then back at Irene. "Did you know he was alive?"

"Yes."

John threw his hands up. "Oh, great. That's absolutely brilliant. Even the dead knew you weren't dead!"

"You'd have just written about it on the blog," Irene said. Her eyes were narrowed, and her smirk gave the impression that she really did think she was very funny.

John wasn't one to hit women, but he felt that same urge he had every time he wanted to punch Sherlock in his smug face. God, the two of them were so unbelievably alike it was unreal. Both completely self-satisfied and aggravatingly unaware of anyone else's feelings.

In this moment, Sherlock spoke up. "Is it my turn to pretend I'm not here?"

Irene and John spoke simultaneously: "Yes!"

" _Excuse me_ ," the gruff voice said from the front of the cab. "We're here."

Sherlock was the first to exit the cab, all but dashing towards the door. For someone who was against returning to John's home, he was at least really ready to leave the cab. John blocked the exit for a moment, and turned to face Irene.

"You don't have to make this as difficult as you are," he snapped at her. "We're both on the same bloody side here."

Irene smiled, then. It was that small, not-quite-kind and not-quite-condescending smile from before. The one she shared with her son. After all of the ice she had been holding up between herself and John since they arrived back at 221b, that smile didn't make any sense whatsoever.

"I'm making it easier for you," she said.

"I don't think you are," John replied. He started out of the cab.

"To hate me, Dr. Watson," Irene said. Her voice was neutral again. Unlike Sherlock, her neutrality wasn't just void of emotion. It had an edge to it, a thick slice of condensation and self-importance. John wanted to hate that part of her, but it _suited_ her.

John stopped as he pulled himself out of the cab. He let out a sigh. Hate her? For what? For her relationship with Sherlock? Grand. He wanted to think that Irene Adler would at least know that John wasn't _actually attracted_ to Sherlock. Not in a romantic way, anyway. He did like being the most important person in Sherlock's life, but that…well, that time appeared to be gone.

This must've been what it felt like for Sherlock, when he discovered that Mary was pregnant.

"I don't _hate_ you," John tried to say as the cab pulled away.

Irene walked past him. "You will."

Sherlock was already in the house. John and Mary had never gotten around to giving him a key, but it was never necessary. Mary always had the door open in time for Sherlock, or Sherlock worked out how to unlock the door effortlessly---whichever it was, it worked for John. He could hear Mary laughing with Nero in the kitchen as he and Irene stepped in.

"While we waited, he went through my book collection," John could hear Mary say to Sherlock. "Picked out a few to borrow, so long as his Mum's all right with that."

"I'm sure she will be," Nero responded. As John stepped in, he could see Nero smiling widely up at his wife. Mary really did suit being a mother. If she could make that obnoxiously pretentious child smile so widely, she had to be doing _something_ right.

Sherlock had stolen a piece of pie, it appeared. A fact which also pleased the little boy who looked over at his father with a wide smile.

Mary was going on as John and Irene stepped inside. "Bit of a surprise, having you show up here. Only money he had was American."

"I really appreciate you paying for the cab, Mrs. Watson," Nero said. He had a bit of chocolate on his chin, and it made the little boy look even younger. John had always assumed five, but he had to be four. No older than four.

"'Appreciate'? Cor, that's a big word for someone your age, don't you think?" Mary replied.

John let out a laugh. "Not with his parents, I don't think. Be rewriting Newton's Law by the time he reaches primary school."

"Absolutely not," Sherlock said around a bite of pie. "Physics is immensely dull."

This made John smile. No matter how fickle and strange Irene Adler could be, there was something wonderfully _normal_ about this. Sherlock eating something with his son while Mary gossiped. It was his best friend and his wife and…John couldn't be unhappy in a moment like this. It was sweet.

It couldn't last.

The thing about Mary Watson was---it wasn't something that John liked to acknowledge. There was a part of her that was now and always would be whoever she was before she became Mary Watson. That part was almost visible when it came out. It was the way she tilted her head, it was the way her eyes got strangely distant and dark.

It was the way she was looking at John right now.

No. No, not at John. Behind him.

John turned, and Irene Adler stood there, his gun up and pointed directly at Mary.

Mary's voice went from sweet and charming to cold steel. "You."

Irene's lips twisted into a smile. "Hello again."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> special thanks to Tumblr user bookfairyfox and Eileen Maksym (https://www.facebook.com/authoreileenmaksym) for help with editing this chapter. You guys are awesome.


	6. Bullet For One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Irene Adler has an old score to settle with Mary Watson. With John, Sherlock, and Nero on Mary's side, who will win?

Again. Oh, god. Irene Adler knew Mary, before she became Mary Morstan. 

John knew very little about Mary's life before. He made the decision after months of holding the memory stick with AGRA written on it that he didn't care who she was before. It was only who she was when he looked into her eyes, or held her in his arms. Mary saved him, and he would never let what had come before change that. One day, he promised himself, one day he'd forget that she had ever been AGRA.

If only the universe would let him forget.

"I thought you were dead," Mary said. Irene had, of course, been mentioned before. Now that John was remembering it, it had been Mary who brought her up. She was reading the blog, laughing at the very idea of Sherlock falling in love. All the while, she knew who Irene was. Oh, god.

Irene tilted her head briefly to the side. Were this Sherlock Holmes, John would have immediately believed Sherlock was insulted at the very idea. Perhaps that was what he was reading with Irene Adler. Perhaps not. The gun in Irene's hand didn't waver, not even as Mary calmly reached forward to pick up the knife she'd been cutting the pie with.

"Don't try it, love," Irene said. "I know how accurate your throw is. I'll pull the trigger before you pick it up."

"In front of your son?" John blurted out. What a stupid thing to say. Of course Irene would shoot Mary in front of her son. Because, in the end, she still was Irene Adler, wasn't she? The dominatrix who brought a nation to its knees. For all that John knew, Nero had witnessed his mother murder before.

" _Your_ son?" Mary asked, voice disbelieving.

Again, Irene didn't answer Mary's question, she just nodded in Nero's direction. He stood, and took a step towards Sherlock. The little boy seemed to hesitate, and then he stepped back towards Mary.

"She's not a bad person, Mummy," Nero said. "I've been with her all day, she's very nice."

Irene let out a breath of air from her nose. "You may have your father's observational skills, but you don't have my insight. Step over with your father."

"She's going to have a baby," Nero blurted out. "She didn't tell me, but I know."

"Even dangerous people have babies, Nero," Irene replied.

Nero paused. "Like you, Mummy?"

"Yes, my pet, like me."

There was silence, and Mary tilted her head as she looked at Irene. Mary never used her pregnancy towards her advantage. Even when John wasn't speaking to her, even when there was nothing but betrayal and anger there, she never brought it up. Being pregnant was just something she was, not something she used. Even now, she didn't use it to her advantage. She was better than that.

God, John loved her.

Mary's hand clenched and unclenched, but did not move towards the knife. John knew she knew where it sat, she didn't even need to break her gaze from Irene to throw it. But would that be the woman she was before she was Mary throwing the knife? Killing Nero's mother in front of him? Sometimes John hated Irene, and he couldn't fault Mary for protecting herself, but---but---he couldn't stand the thought of Nero seeing that. Or Sherlock, losing his "Woman" again.

"Nero, why don't you ask your father when I was more dangerous, before or after I was going to have a baby," Irene said. "Go to him."

Nero looked confused, but complied, moving away from Mary and towards Sherlock.

Sherlock, for his part, hadn't moved from where he was lounging, eating his pie. God, the smug _bastard_ was still eating.

"You're not even going to try to diffuse this," John found himself snapping.

Sherlock lifted his shoulder in a halfhearted shrug.

"You gave her the bloody gun!" 

Sherlock sniffed and put the plate down on the table with a loud clatter. "Of course I did," he said. "But she's not going to use it."

Irene pulled back the safety. "Try again, Mr. Holmes. You have no idea what this woman has done."

"Oh, I have quite the idea what she's done," Sherlock responded. "And I don't care, because that's not the person she is now. She's John's wife, she's my friend."

"You've always had excellent taste in friends," Irene replied, voice thick with sarcasm. What friends did she know? Or was she talking about John? John thought she might be talking about him.

Sherlock let out a sigh. "Whether it's personal protection or revenge, Woman, you're not going to shoot her."

"And you're going to stop me?"

"I will," John broke in.

Irene's lip twitched. She didn't turn to look at him, but John had the feeling that she wanted to throw a sarcastic smile in his direction, but didn't dare look away from Mary.

"The bullet is faster than you are, Dr. Watson."

Mary moved. Her hand started towards the knife. She wasn't protecting herself, John realized, she was moving to protect John.

"Mary, _don't_ ," Sherlock instructed. She froze as instructed, hand mere centimeters from the weapon.

Nero leaned into Sherlock. He looked almost _bored_ , the little bastard. How often did he see his mother in a standoff with a former assassin? Was he even remotely aware of what was at stake?

Irene's jaw set, as though Nero's movement brought him back to the forefront of her mind.

"Mr. Holmes, please remove my son from this room," she said. Whatever John had expected, that wasn't it. Perhaps Nero had never seen this before, or perhaps she simply didn't want him to know what it was she did.

Sherlock, not bothering to stand up, put an arm around his son. It was a false gesture, John knew. One that was more for Irene's benefit than anything else. 

"Now, Nero, be a smart boy and tell your mother how I know she won't be shooting Mrs. Watson today."

Nero blinked for a moment, and then looked up at his father. "Because you've got all the bullets in your pocket."

Irene's eyes widened, and she pulled the trigger experimentally. John jumped forward---Sherlock had been wrong before---but there was only a click from the gun. Irene's expression went from shocked to horrified in a matter of milliseconds. This, John realized, must have been what it was like to slip from being the dominatrix who brought a nation to its knees down to the most hunted woman in the European underground. She was armed and had the upper hand, and now she was only a few feet away from the person she had just promised to kill. Mary still didn't move, her hand still poised just above the knife.

"When?" Irene demanded, the gun still up, still frozen in the second she realized her gun was useless.

Sherlock was on his feet. "Forty-five minutes ago, before we left Baker Street."

At last, Irene's eyes turned back to Sherlock. He took a step towards her.

"You've never held any animosity towards John, quite the opposite if I recall," Sherlock said. "But the moment that you knew his wife held your son and you might have to kill her, you changed your tactic with him, became purposefully aloof and difficult. You were setting John on edge, making him more emotional and less observant, as is your tactic when you're playing a certain kind of game. And then, of course, there's the gun."

He reached out, curling his fingers around the wrist of her firing arm. She didn't release the weapon, but didn't pull away. "We both know that I'm a better shot than you are and John is a better shot than the two of us combined. You asked for the gun initially for John Watson behind it, otherwise you'd have simply asked for _a_ gun. The difference is one word, but all the meaning behind it. You wanted John to hold the gun, until the moment you realized who you might have to point it at."

Irene's other arm went out, this time to strike Sherlock in the face. He caught it, thumb pressed against her pulse point, and held her there. "You purposefully made no comment about Mary's appearance once you admitted you'd seen what she looked like, because you don't make those comments about people you _know_ , only women you make into objects like Anthea and Molly Hooper. I don't fault you that, I do the same thing about every client I've ever had."

He leaned in, just a little. "You knew her, wouldn't admit it, purposefully put her husband on edge, and wanted John's gun. Not a lover, your jealousy doesn't work that way. No, I suspected that Mary was someone from your past. Probably someone _you_ wronged, but that's only a guess from knowing you."

"She sold my identity," Mary said. "Names, addresses, all of my CIA contracts. I had to move to freelancing, and then I had to disappear."

"You weren't even worth that much," Irene said, voice purposefully flippant.

John reached out a hand for Mary's, taking it, pulling it away from the knife. Her fingers were cold, her knuckles were almost white. She didn't relax, not even with John's hand in hers. Irene destroyed her life, John realized. All those wet jobs for the CIA Magnussen had mentioned, Irene sold that information and made Mary go rogue.

"It got you away from that life, in the end," John said, quiet.

Mary turned her head to look at him. When she looked at John, no matter what they were talking about, the cold look faded. The tilt to her head dropped, and it was like the ice began melting. John liked to think----no, more than that, John _knew_ it was the real Mary showing through. The Mary she would have been had she never been pulled into the life of an assassin.

"You don't know what I had to do in between," Mary said, her voice suddenly hoarse with emotion.

"I don't care," John assured her.

"You _should_ ," Irene piped up. Her eyes stayed on Sherlock's, but her lips curled into that predatory smile. "Shall I tell him?"

" _You_ can shut up!" John snapped, turning to face her. "Here we are, trying to _help you_ and you come in here, ready to kill my wife, my unborn daughter, over something that you _know_ just because you can?"

Sherlock made a face. "Strictly, I think she was attempting it as self-defense in advance."

"No, Sherlock, you don't get to have a say in this!" John was surprised to find himself shouting. "Mary's life is---"

There was a sound, then. A small, whimpering sound. The four of them turned to find Nero, standing near where he'd been, trying desperately to hold in tears. He couldn't seem to contain them, and they spilled over onto his chubby cheeks. He sniffed and coughed and started to sob.

As one, both Irene and Mary seemed to melt instantly. Irene pulled from Sherlock's grip, giving up the gun and rushing to her son's side. Mary stepped from John and ran to grab a box of tissues for the little boy.

"Oh, my darling, I'm so sorry," Mary said to Nero. "Here, I'm so sorry. We won't fight anymore."

"Nero, it's all right," Irene said.

Nero sniffed harder, his voice tiny and slightly hysterical. "I don't want you to fight. I like Mrs. Watson and I love you, Mummy."

He threw his arms around Irene, who appeared to freeze in place for a moment, before pulling her son into a hug. It was touching, seeing Irene just as flabbergasted and lost at being a parent as Sherlock had been. The two were quite the pair.

Mary turned back to John, and he could see that Nero's plight affected her as well. Tears ran down his wife's face as she pulled him into an embrace.

Over Mary's shoulder, John could see Nero wink at Sherlock. Sherlock winked back.


	7. Three Men Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tempers cooled, for the time being, and now John has to work out what's going on between Irene and Mary, what plans Sherlock has up his sleeve, and why Nero seems to be enjoying all of this.
> 
> And what do the American dollar bills at the docks have in store for them?

John decided explaining exactly how awkward the afternoon had become was along the lines of explaining the nature of the universe. Originally, he had planned on finishing up the case of the flayed man (which he was tentatively calling "The Missing Three-Quarter Skin" in his head), typing it up for the blog, having tea with Mary, and getting to bed at a reasonable hour. Now, he was tasked with making tea, _again_ , this time for his wife Mary, and Sherlock, Irene Adler, and their son Nero.

Irene and Mary had cooled off after Nero's apparent crying fit. Once Irene had stood up, she looked from her son to Sherlock, and that shocked, stunned look that had been on her face had settled into something a little more knowing, and almost _proud_. Maybe she realized that Nero had deceived her. Maybe not. Who could tell with that woman?

Nero and Sherlock were upstairs, searching through Mary's books. Sherlock had commented that he needed a history of American money, and Nero, naturally, said he spotted one upstairs on one of Mary's bookshelves in passing. Mary was tasked with some internet searching, and Irene was strictly on her mobile phone. Sherlock offered no tasks to her, and she asked for none. She sat across from Mary at the dining table, flipping through her phone, while Mary worked on the laptop.

The empty gun sat between them. The knife and pie had been moved to the kitchen, where John was working. He could see them, the two women who meant so much to both John and Sherlock. Of course, seeing them meant very little if they started fighting again. John really didn't think he could actually stop them, even if he wanted to.

It was Mary who finally broke the uncomfortable silence at the table.

"So. You and Sherlock." Mary kept her eyes on the computer. Her back was to John, and he couldn't see her face. Her voice was just a shade harsher than teasing. A sort of cruelty reserved for people Mary Watson really didn't like, but nothing so cruel that he could imagine those dark, cold eyes from before.

Irene glanced over her mobile at Mary, but said nothing.

Mary continued. "Even John wasn't _really_ sure something would happen between you two if you had the chance. And I thought you were gay."

"I am," Irene responded with a challenging glare to Mary, as though that was enough of an answer. 

To John, it always had been. It was in the way she had stood opposite him at the power complex and told him she was gay. _Look at us both,_ she'd said. It made sense. John was and, as far as he knew, always would be straight. But sex hadn't been as important to him after Sherlock came into his life. Hell, for a while there, it seemed like he was giving up sex completely, since all of his girlfriends tired of Sherlock instantly and ran off. But it was worth it to orbit the awesome planet that Sherlock could be. If that wasn't love, what was? If Irene felt the same way but threw in the sexual attraction for Sherlock that John didn't feel, and it was reciprocated, well, who was John to judge? John's love for Sherlock didn't make him gay, and Irene's…well, whatever she had with Sherlock, it didn't make her straight.

Mary didn't respond at first, and John wished he could see her face, could read something and know how she felt. How did she know Irene was gay? Did they have an affair? Did she watch Irene seduce someone? All of those questions burned in John's mind, but he pushed them away. That was a life that Mary had before. He loved Mary for who she was _now_. He would let the questions go.

"And now you're a mother," Mary said. Her voice was accusatory. John recognized it as the same voice that told him he hadn't slept when he said he had, or accused him of drinking too much when he said he hadn't.

Irene's gaze hadn't changed. It was still cold, still firm. John wondered at Mary's ability to stay so calm at it.

"I am still Irene Adler," she said.

"Oh, and the boy doesn't change that, does it?"

"Does your pregnancy change you?"

Mary grew quiet. "I changed me."

"No, you didn't," Irene replied. "No more than John Watson could change himself. He'll always be the soldier that follows Sherlock Holmes."

"And I'll always be the woman who loves John Watson," Mary retorted.

Irene _smirked_. It was that knowing, unfathomably annoying smirk she seemed to prefer when she felt very confident about something. John really hated that smirk. It was far too like Sherlock's smirks, Sherlock's way of showing that he knew things and expected that you knew them as well.

"You're what he likes," Irene said. "I'd always wondered." Had she?

"I suppose I am."

"Lucky Dr. Watson."

"You have no idea."

Irene's smirk softened, as if something mutual was found between the two of them. Which didn't make any sense to John, not really. There wasn't much between Mary and Irene that he'd call "similar". Maybe it was something he didn't see.

God, sometimes he really did feel like the only sane one.

"Nero's a wonder," Mary said, her voice quiet, and oddly genuine. "You two did a good job."

Bless her soul. She was trying.

Another small smirk appeared on the edge of Irene's lips. She looked back down to her mobile. "Of course we did. At least half of those genes are mine."

"Bit chubby, though," Mary teasingly warned, and her voice was her own---not the way she was when she was, well, that person she'd been before. "Might want to keep him away from the pie."

"Mr. Watson! Mr. Watson!"

Aforementioned chubby boy came bounding down the stairs, holding a book up high.

"We found it, we found it. Father wants you upstairs!"

John looked over to the two women at the table, and then followed Nero. He didn't want to just leave them, not when he wasn't certain what they'd do, nor when they were talking about something so interesting and suddenly so intimately. But at the same time, when Sherlock called, John followed. This was, and always would be, simply how he was.

Irene and Mary watched John go, but neither of them spoke. They just watched him. It was almost eerie. John got that strange feeling again, that one that he got when he really _really_ figured that everyone else knew what the hell was going on except him.

"What is it, Nero, what did you find?" John asked.

"This, this here." Nero opened the book, pointing at the page as they got to the top of the stairs. He showed John an older image, one of the first security strips used in money, originally in the American 1990 $5 note, and all bills of that currency and higher that year.

"What about it?" John asked.

"It's one of the things that remained in the 'goo' as you so adequately put it," Sherlock said, appearing around the corner. "Which gives us the rest of the information we need. We need to get the rest of that money, and see what it tells us."

"What do you mean?" John said. "It tells us, what? That the money isn't fraudulent?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Again, you see, but you don't observe, John."

Nero pointed at the book. "Look."

John looked, and then looked back at the boy. Oh, Jesus. If the boy could figure it out, then John _had_ to work it out. This was a question of personal pride here. Yes, Nero was the child of bloody Sherlock Holmes and Irene Adler, but that didn't mean that Dr. John Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusilers and Bart's bloody Hospital couldn't hold his own against a five year old!

"Wait a minute. These were originally in five dollar bills. Those were one-dollar notes. They shouldn't have metallic strips."

"Exactly," Sherlock said. "So what were they doing there?"

"Acting as a false positive---making people think they're real?" John offered.

"No," Sherlock said, with a wave of his hand. "Anyone who knows anything about American money will know they're fake. Even you could work that out."

"Yeah, thanks for that."

"What they are, is they're there for a reason. What was it the Woman said?"

John paused. What _had_ Irene said? He turned his head, looking back at Sherlock curiously. "Why do you always call her that? Why do you call her 'the Woman'?"

"What?" Sherlock looked taken aback, like John had slapped him in the middle of his train of thought.

"You sound like a bloody caveman. Her name is Irene. You two have had a child, doesn't she at least deserve to be called her given name?"

"Mummy never calls him 'Sherlock,'" Nero offered. The boy didn’t seem perturbed at all by the change in topic; it was all part of a big, fun game he was playing.

"She _said_ that the man who gave her this money boasted about all of the things he could buy with just one of these bills. Think about it, John. Just one of these _American dollars_. Even if the rate was higher, you can't buy a lot with one dollar. But you could buy a lot if it contained information."

"Information hidden within a metallic strip within the bill," John said. "The bills are transporters!"

Sherlock grinned. "That's why they're so valuable. Not for what they are, but for what they contain. That's why they mean so much."

"That's why Irene wants them."

"And that's why they're so dangerous." Sherlock moved back towards the stairs. "We need to get to where they're being produced, figure out who has the information."

At the bottom of the stairs, John saw Irene and Mary, now sitting close together at the table, chatting amiably over tea. Irene was painting Mary's fingernails a bright shade of gold, while Mary nibbled on a slice of pie.

"Oh, the mornings have been awful. The nausea's been just a misery."

"I tried this tea I had in Shanghai, it did wonders, I'll send you the recipe."

"How did you avoid stretch marks?"

"Would you believe yoga?"

"Absolutely not."

"Well, it worked, and it made labor pains bearable the first few hours."

John's jaw dropped. Irene Adler and Mary Watson, talking like---like _people_? Like ordinary gossipy women? Like a mother and a soon-to-be mother? And, what the hell? Mary letting Irene paint her nails? Where did Mary even get a shade like that? "When did---how did---?"

"Oh, hello, dear," Irene said. "Sorry, did you think we'd actually talk while you were listening in?"

"Sorry, love, we're a bit more private than that," Mary said. She at least had the courtesy to blush.

Irene capped the nail polish. "I can see you boys are going out. Can you be dears and please take Nero with you? Mrs. Watson and I have some catching up to do."

Nero _whined_. "Mother, must I?"

"Dear, you're not going to be some sort of a stay-at-home consultant."

Oh, god. Both Irene and Sherlock thought their son was going to follow in their footsteps, didn't they? John privately wished that Nero would do something really wild and turn into an accountant or something, just to shock them both. He wouldn't, of course, not with his genes.

"All right, Woman, we'll be back for tea," Sherlock said, brushing his way to the door. "Might need food."

No argument. The fact that Sherlock gave Irene Adler no argument and even reached down to take Nero's hand as he left was the most stunning part of this whole situation. Though, really, everything about this whole situation was absolutely, unbelievably stunning. 

"I'm not your---" Irene appeared almost at a loss for words.

"Housekeeper?" John offered.

"Wife?" Mary offered at the same time.

Irene waved a hand, as if all of the above would work perfectly for how she felt. She resumed painting Mary's nails, and John got the distinct impression that he was no longer welcome in his own home. He sighed, and headed for the door.

Sherlock stood with Nero outside of John's car.

"I'm driving?" John said, sounding surprised.

"We need your car," Sherlock said.

"Why?"

Sherlock's face was firm, resolute. There was not an ounce of kindness or sympathy left in his features. Whatever had been there before had been drained by Irene's words before and her instruction to take Nero.

"After we return from the docks," he said, "We are going to a pet store."

~

"But it has to be small enough to go on a plane!"

"Bigger dogs are more effective in dangerous situations!"

"But she'll work out a way to make it go away if it gets too big!"

"You can't logic away the fact that larger dogs are better dogs, Nero!"

"What if I got a parrot? The Hardy Boys have a parrot!"

"Parrots are idiotic."

"No they aren't! They can talk! Mum's last girlfriend couldn't even talk!"

"That's probably why your Mum liked her."

The two of them had been arguing over this for the better part of the drive. And, while John had hated the arguing, it had been the most _adorable_ argument that John had ever seen. Sherlock really, truly wanted Nero to have a large, cuddly dog. Something he could hug and could protect him. John could extrapolate from the argument that Sherlock had a large dog in his youth, and it had protected him from larger bullies. This fact made John feel oddly sad. He hadn't had many friends of his own when he was younger, and he wished he could've---well, it was stupid. He was quite a few years older than Sherlock, he'd have never been able to be friends with him when they were kids. But it would've been nice to have had a friend. And he would've protected him.

"Nearly there," John warned them.

Sherlock nodded. "Do you know why your Mum wanted me to watch over you, Nero?"

"Because she doesn't want you getting into trouble?"

Sherlock's brow furrowed. This was, clearly, not the answer he expected. "Why wouldn't she want that?"

"She thinks you won't get into trouble if you have Nero with you," John explained. "So you won't get hurt."

"I get hurt all the time," Sherlock said, again. He was clearly a little frustrated. "She doesn't have any influence over that."

Nero tried again, this time for an answer his father would expect. "Because she and Mrs. Watson are up to something that they don't want us to know about." He even managed to say it in the same tone of voice he answered in the first time.

"Exactly, so we have to---"

John interrupted, "Wait, what, they're up to something without us?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Yes, _obviously_."

"What are they doing? They're not going to go here, to the docks? Irene does know we're coming here."

"Probably not. Mary's health wouldn't stop her, but they wouldn't have any reason to."

"No motive!" Nero said, excitedly.

"Yes, exactly."

"So, what is their motive?" John asked. The idea of Mary out there, lying to him _again_ , infuriated him. After everything they'd been through, after everything they had done. And she was lying. Lying and putting herself in danger.

"I don't know."

John found himself all but shouting again. "Where the _hell_ is she, Sherlock?"

Nero piped up, "Somewhere that requires gold nail polish."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long delay. Special thanks to Lyrangalia and Eileen Maksym for beta-ing this week. <3<3


	8. Please Pass the Guilt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Irene and Mary are up to something, and it only takes one final clue for Sherlock Holmes and John Watson to put all the pieces together. Can they work out what they're up to before it's too late, or will Nero serve as the ultimate distraction in keeping them away from it all?

"Gold nail polish." Sherlock repeated the words slowly. 

Gold nail polish. No, John wasn't getting anything at all. Or maybe he was getting everything. It was such a tiny, stupid, insig- _bloody_ -nificant clue.

John chanced a glance back at Nero, and the boy looked hopeful. Like one of them would work it out. He was _too_ hopeful, too excited. It was patronizing, the way his parents could be when they talked to John sometimes, when they thought he just wasn't being intelligent enough for the two of them. It was the wrong expression for someone who was as in the dark as they all should have been in this moment.

"Do you _know_ where they are, Nero?" John asked.

"No," Nero said, and the lie was too fast. Even Nero realized it, and he at least had the decency to look ashamed. Sherlock's face went from concentrating and calculating in his deductions to infuriated in a heartbeat.

"Stop the car, John."

John turned his head. "I'm parking, Sherlock."

"Stop the car, right now."

"I know he's lying and it's not right, but don't even think about striking him. I'm not kidding, that's not how we raise children."

Sherlock let out a snort. "That's not what Mycroft said."

"Yeah, and look how you turned out," John retorted. He immediately regretted it, but there were some things that were really sort of true and couldn't be taken back. Sherlock also knew it. The two men shared a brief glance, and Sherlock's face was one that wasn't angry, so much as resigned. Perhaps that feeling of disconnect that John felt earlier, that thought that they could never be repaired, maybe he felt it, too.

 _Good job on repairing that, John Watson_.

"Who was the man?" Sherlock asked his son.

As Sherlock spoke, John spun the car into the carpark near the docks. Sherlock immediately leapt from the car and began to pace. His anger was a mobile thing, a thing that spun in great, leaping circles.

Nero stepped from the car and blinked innocently at him. "What man---?"

"The man who gave your mother the money. The money with the information in the metallic strips. You know what man."

Sherlock turned to face his son, and he was angry, now. More than angry, _incensed._ There were few things that made Sherlock truly angry, and one of them, John knew, was being outsmarted.

"Your mother didn't need help with anyone chasing her, she never did. Those dollar bills with metallic strips, that was _American_ money. You two have spent half your time playing around that part of the world, she'd have recognized the metal for what it was. _Information._ She knew it was something she could use, or something she could bargain with. And it wasn't that she'd gotten in over her head, otherwise she'd have never gotten you involved in this."

No, John realized as he lifted himself from the car as well. This was more than being outsmarted. This was about being used. That was the only thing that made Sherlock even angrier.

"She wants the information that the money has---or she wants to suppress something within it. Either way---it's something she wants, and something that she needs to get. So she created a plan. She needed to get our attention, and then she needed to get us out of the way, that's why the money was soaked in dock water and why you had that blasted raincoat."

John shook his head. "Wait, Sherlock, that doesn't make sense. If she had a plan, she could've just done it on her own, she didn't need us, she didn't need to come all this way---"

"She doesn't need us," Sherlock said, looking up at John. He had that look on his face again. Oh, _god damn_ that look was annoying. He expected John to know what he knew. He expected John to just get it. He always expected John to just _get it_ and---

And, in this moment, John _did_. He got it.

John held up a hand. "Irene had a plan. She wanted the money with the information hidden within the metallic strips within the paper. She knew where the money was and she knew how to acquire it, but she didn't know how to get the money without putting herself in danger."

Sherlock smiled. "Because?"

"Because she knew the people who were making it. Intimately." His eyes drifted towards Nero, and John felt his cheeks warming. "More or less."

Sherlock nodded. "Because the man she acquired the money from was only part of a whole system. A piece of it. And when she took the money, he was held responsible. Held responsible and _punished_. Violently and visually."

The pieces clicked. "Our flayed man."

"Exactly. That's why no one saw him enter or leave, that's why there were no witnesses, and that's why there was no footage. Everyone knew exactly what happened to him, and everyone knew who was responsible. Nero was half-right when he said that they supplemented someone that didn't fit in. They needed someone to tell us about, so they picked a 'face in the crowd' off of the walls."

"Trying to throw us off the trail," John agreed. "Because they don't want to be next. Probably because they're either afraid of being another flayed man, or they've got a dollar bill with their information stored up wherever the rest of them are."

"Precisely. Now, the Woman. The Woman knows where the money is, now. She has some of it, and she wants it. But she can't get it alone. So she comes to us with some that has false clues and Nero."

John shook his head. "Nero to pull you towards the case and false clues to push you away that doesn't make---"

"No, John, you see, but you need to _think_!"

"Right, because it's the new sexy."

Sherlock let out a low, deeply annoyed sigh.

John concentrated. No, this did make sense. It had to make sense. She stepped into their lives again. Stepped in, asking for help, the way she did before. Stepped in, but this time she didn't want John, she didn't want Sherlock. She wanted John and Sherlock to take Nero because---

"Mary," John said. "She wants Mary."

"A fully trained assassin, and one she can manipulate because she's a mother. That's why he left that raincoat behind when he went to your house, John." A slight smirk on Sherlock's face. "The pain of loss…"

John snorted. "We both know she can't manipulate Mary _that_ easily."

"We both know she can figure out a way. And now she's taking Mary somewhere to get this information while we're off on a chase she knows we won't be able to find anything with our very own distraction following us around." Sherlock gestured down to his son, standing silently nearby.

To John's surprise, Nero actually looked genuinely upset as he stood there before them. Not like he would cry, just like a little boy who had just been told that Father Christmas wasn't real, or that he wouldn't actually be getting a pony for his birthday.

"Mother wouldn't really let a man die like that," Nero said. He sounded quiet, like he'd missed the rest of the conversation, still stuck in the beginning. "The---I saw the pictures of the flaying, and the time it would take for him to die…I read the book you gave me by Jung…"

John looked at Sherlock, irritated. "You gave him _Jung_? At the age of bloody _five_?"

"He's got to learn if he's going to be a detective!"

"Hellbent on making him into a detective, are we?" John demanded.

Sherlock knelt in front of his son. "Well, I'm not going to let him become his mother. Now, Nero." He reached out, putting his hands on his son's shoulders. "You know where they went, don't you?"

Nero nodded. "Yes. But I didn't think it was related to your case, Dad, I really didn't."

It was strange, hearing Nero call Sherlock 'Dad'. John knew that when Nero got comfortable, or just became less whatever-he-was, he dropped formalized namecalling, and he overheard that he called Sherlock 'Daddy' once, but it was still so bloody _odd_ , hearing that. Sherlock, a father. The father of this little child, this little child that was learning his mother had manipulated a man to his death.

Sherlock looked like a man faced with a title he didn't understand. It was similar to the way that Irene Adler had looked when Nero had thrown himself into her arms earlier that day, sobbing. That whole incident couldn't have been entirely faked, not for how stunned Irene had appeared. Neither she nor Sherlock were really meant for parenthood, though they were both working with what they had to raise a child that the world was probably not entirely ready for.

"I believe you," Sherlock said. "But you have to tell us. We have to make certain Mrs. Watson is safe, and we have to stop the people who killed the man."

"They're going to Casa Sotelio," Nero said. "They're posing as dancers. I'm supposed to keep you out until they both get back."

Sherlock gently patted his son on the shoulder and stood up. He looked at John again.

"And this is why he's going to become a detective and not like his mother."

+~

The drive back was significantly more tense. Where the ride towards the docks had been bustling with the promise of a new puppy for Nero, Sherlock was now angry, fuming over Irene. He appeared to be forming his own plan of how to deal with the Italian crime family within the nightclub Casa Sotelio, rescue Irene and Mary, and put the right people behind bars while leaving the four of them with their skin intact.

Nero was to remain at 221b with Mrs. Hudson. The boy was perfectly happy with this. Well, as perfectly happy as the sulking child could be during the drive.

"Father," Nero said, finally. "Can I stay with you for a few weeks?"

"Why?" Sherlock demanded.

John knew why. It seemed absolutely obvious why. The boy had just found out that his mother was responsible for the horrific death of a man. He wanted to be away from her for a while, and probably wanted to bond a bit with the father he knew very little about.

"I just…wanted to," Nero attempted.

"You know that's not possible," Sherlock said. "No more than a week, that's your mother and I's rule."

"Even after this?" John asked.

Sherlock shrugged. "She left a corpse for me to find at Christmas and believe it was her, John. This isn't even something she actually committed. I wouldn't even necessarily call her _responsible._ "

"To Nero, she might be," John retorted.

"Then that's something he'll need to talk to her about."

There was silence in the back seat, and John glanced in the mirror to see Nero looking out the window. He wasn't sniffling, wasn't crying, wasn't attracting attention to himself at all. This was, in its own way, more worrying than anything else. What was the boy thinking? Was he upset with his mother? Was he longing for Sherlock's attention? What did he need?

Someone's horn went off behind John, and he noticed the light changed.

"Father," Nero spoke up again.

"What?" Sherlock snapped. "I'm trying to think."

"Am I fat?"

The question appeared to come out of the blue, but John suspected it came from somewhere. He wanted to ask, but this, well, this was a question that wasn't just for the car. This was a question from son to father.

"You're asking because…?"

"Mum wanted me to get involved with some children on the playground, get to meet people, know what they like and all that," Nero explained.

"She would."

"They told me I was a pig. Oink. Oink."

Sherlock's hands, which had been splayed out in front of him, twisted up into little fists. He relaxed them almost instantly.

"So they were saying I was fat," Nero said. "I just wanted to know if it was true."

Sherlock considered this for a moment, and then looked back over his seat at his son.

"Yes," he said. "You are, a bit." He turned away. "You have the genetic predisposition on my side of the family and you clearly like to eat, so that's not entirely unexpected."

Nero cleared his throat. "Pre—pre—predis---"

"Predisposition. Tendency to a condition or quality," Sherlock explained. "My brother's a bit heavier, so's your Grandmum. If I cared to, I might be too."

This wasn't something John actually knew about Sherlock. He knew Sherlock could go days and days without eating, and he knew Sherlock was as thin as a rail, but hardly skeletal. A slower metabolism actually made a lot of sense. These facts didn't help a five year old with his ego when dealing with playground bullies, however.

"But it hardly matters, does it?" Sherlock said, looking back again. "So you're fat. Your mother and I aren't. Your mass doesn't affect your intellect. It doesn't affect your worth, does it?"

Nero shook his head.

"Of course it doesn't. The only thing it affects is your speed when running, and that's not something you clearly enjoy doing, so it doesn't affect you at all. You should base yourself around what you want with your life, Nero. Not what you think other people should want. Which is probably why I don't have a lot of friends. People expect me to want what they want."

John spoke up. "But when you find the right friends, they'll like you for just who you are."

Sherlock looked over at John, and a smile appeared on his face. It wasn't a smug smile, or a victorious smile. No, it was one of those few, but really wonderful _real_ smiles. The kind that they shared when they were able to just be what Irene told Nero they were. The best of friends like no one in the whole world.

"That's why Mum doesn't have any friends," Nero says. "No one knows what she wants. Or who she is. Except you, Father. But she also says she hates you for it."

Sherlock looked back at his son, and his smile turned a little crooked, a little more mischievous. "I'm sure she does."

By the time they pulled up to 221b, it was nearly dark. Sherlock ran in, dropping off Nero with Mrs. Hudson and a few quick instructions, and then dashed back to the car.

"Casa Sotelio will be opening soon," Sherlock said. "We haven't a moment to lose."


	9. The Golden Spiders

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock travel to the heart of the Italian club scene in order to stop Irene Adler's plans and save Mary. But what are Irene's plans? What does she have in store for the Baker Street Trio?
> 
> And what, exactly, does it have to do with the gold nail polish Nero mentioned before?

While the trip to Casa Sotelio was uneventful from the outside, from inside John's own head, a war was raging. Half of himself was roaring with pure, unadulterated betrayal. He was furious at Mary for breaking the one promise that meant the most: the promise that she would never lie to him again. After lying to him about everything, about her past, about who she was, he _had_ to believe that she wouldn't lie to him again. That she would be the person he loved, the woman he knew she was inside. And then, she went and broke that promise, that one most important promise.

The other half was just sitting in his mind, calmly reminding himself that he loved Mary. That Mary was the one, his true love. He couldn't _not_ love her, even now. Funnily enough, the fact that she was pregnant never really mattered, not really. No, the Watson baby would come so long as Mary didn't get herself killed in this stupid plan that Irene Adler had for the two of them. But Mary---Mary was the love of his life. How could he stay angry at her, how could he live another few months in silence? She made him _whole_ and happy.

"You can't keep warring with yourself, John, we're about to go into battle," Sherlock chastised him. "I need you here."

"Oh, I'm here," John replied. "I'm _livid_ , but I'm here."

"You're not as sharp when you're livid. I need you at your sharpest."

"You can be sharp enough for the both of us," John retorted, voice snappish. "And how did we manage to miss that they were planning something without us? What could Irene possibly be manipulating Mary with that she could convince her to do this?"

"She knows Mary's past, John," Sherlock said. "And if there's one thing the Woman is good at, it's using secrets to their fullest advantage."

John scowled. "Stop sounding so bloody proud of her. She's the _enemy_ right now, you do realize that, don't you?"

Sherlock's eyebrows went up, as though the idea of Irene Adler being the villain in this situation never once occurred to him. God, it _didn't_ , did it? He really thought they were just going in there to rescue the two women from themselves and stop the gang from committing more crimes.

John turned to face his friend more fully. "She's manipulated the two of us, and she's manipulating Mary. She's used your own son as a tool, a bloody _tool_ to get you away from my pregnant wife to put her in danger."

Sherlock nodded. "Yes?" His tone stated that this was correct, but that he didn't see this as _wrong_.

"That's more than a Bit Not Good, Sherlock. Manipulating children, pregnant women we love."

"All right, yes."

"You're not even a little bit angry at her."

"A little bit," Sherlock admitted.

"You're more _annoyed_ that she got a leg up on you," John said, throwing his arms up in exasperation. "You two bloody deserve each other. Surprised you haven't exchanged nuptials yet."

Sherlock let out a little snort, but then turned away, looking out to the road as they drove. The silence was, in its own way, more worrisome than Sherlock's proud-sounding voice when he spoke. It meant he was thinking about Irene, thinking about what they said. When Sherlock thought, John couldn't even pretend to understand. He couldn't get a glimpse of what was going on in the detective's mind. Not even a little bit.

"So," John said, taking a breath. "You and Irene."

"Yes."

This was going to be difficult, but John had to find out more. Now, in the taxi, with no children or spouses or manipulating dominatrices about, was probably the best time to breach the subject. And, well, it was better than warring with himself about Mary.

"That…happened, then? The two of you, together?"

Sherlock let out a low breath out of his nose, and glanced back in John's direction, his eyebrows knitted together. "We've had a child, and you're asking if we've had sexual intercourse."

Okay, maybe this wasn't the right place for this conversation, because now John's face was turning hot and he felt unbelievably awkward. Maybe he needed a few drinks and a slightly less stressful situation.

"Yes, I was---I was wondering when it---if it---you know, happened."

Sherlock looked back out the window. "Once."

John's eyebrows went up again. "Oh. Well. Bit unlucky, that. Improbable, but---"

"Improbable?" Sherlock asked.

"You know, getting pregnant after one time."

A small smile appeared on Sherlock's face. "I said 'once,' John. Not 'one time.'"

Once. As in 'once upon a time'. As in before. As in--- "Are you being _cheeky_ about your bloody sex life?" John demanded, a smile forming on his face. "Of all the things I thought I'd have to deal with---"

The taxi pulled to a stop in front of the Casa Sotelio.

John had only been here during the daytime, when they were interviewing people, but Casa Sotelio was very different at night. A small warehouse with a neon sign and several posters plastered across the door, the line was already wrapping around the side of the building, full of dark-haired young men and women ready to dance and drink and generally act like complete idiots over the evening. Music blared from inside the building, and lights could be seen within the small, frosted windows above. It looked like a place that John would have avoided, even when he was sixteen.

As they left the taxi, Sherlock ignored the line and headed straight for the man at the door. A man that, sadly, John recognized all too well. It was the same man who had put the break in Sherlock's nose only several hours earlier. 

God, had it really only been several hours earlier?

"You!" the man said.

"Me," Sherlock agreed. "Temple punch." As he spoke, he threw the as promised punch, twisting his hip to generate force, and aiming true to the man's temple, knocking him out cold in one hit.

The man crumpled. Some of the teenagers gasped in horror, but none of them interceded.

"You should have broken his nose," John suggested.

Sherlock gave him an admonishing glare. "I'm not petty enough to retaliate, John."

He stepped to the door, pulling it open. As he did, John took note that Sherlock did step on the man's hand, pushing it hard into the pavement. No retaliation. Of course.

The music blared even louder inside. Young people danced around them, taking drinks from women with long, dark hair and gold makeup. Their fingernails glimmered in the heavy strobe lights. The gold nail polish, of course. It was part of the uniform for the women who worked here. The dancers, the women with the drinks, the bartenders. They all wore the same dark wig, the same long, gold eyelashes. Most of them wore golden dresses and bikinis. Some of them were topless.

They were all thin and all of them pale. Mary's pregnancy could've been covered up with the right sort of binding. He liked to think Mary wouldn't go so far as to be topless (and his jealousy _really_ didn't want to think of Mary being topless in a place like this…)

"Sherlock, any of them could be Mary or Irene!" John called over the din.

"We just need to keep looking!"

Sherlock led the way up the stairs, towards the second floor. Another set of dancers were up on this floor, these on illuminated platforms, doing complicated moves with golden feathers.

Sherlock gestured to John. "Elevator," he said. There were two sets of elevators, one on either side of the secondary level. Both were not lit up, sitting comfortably in dark corners.

"No access on the first floor. Probably goes somewhere we need. Which means one of them would be on this floor, watching it---"

"And one of them would be on it, going where they want," John replied. He could see that from the illuminated dancing stage, both of the elevators were easily visible. John had to hand it to Irene Adler, she picked an _excellent_ disguise for the two of them. Whoever was watching these elevators would see them easily, and not be noticed at all, not with the number of dancing women coming onto and off of those platforms.

A small cheer made John turn. A newer cover of the song _Everybody Wants to Rule the World_ began playing as another dancer crossed the illuminated platform. She had no wig, but wore the long, gold eyelashes, the golden heels, and had two, large gold feather fans to dance with.

Unlike any of the other dancers, her lips were a dark, violent red.

"Sherlock," John said.

Sherlock turned, and his eyes went to the woman on stage as she danced, the front of her body covered by the golden fans. She turned and twisted, moving her hips in a simple, gyrating rhythm. Nothing overtly obscene, but _god_ , was it undeniably sexy. Her back was completely exposed and---oh, god. No. No, she was not going to---

Yes, of course she was. At the climax of the song hit, Irene Adler turned, raising the fans high above her head, exposing her 32-24-34 body to the second floor of Casa Sotelio to the sound of cheers.

John put his face in one hand, exasperated. This was just like her. Hide in plain sight? No, of course not. No, she had to go and make a bloody scene to make certain no one would look at those elevators but her. This was so unbelievably _embarrassing_.

He put his hand down and turned to Sherlock, only to find the detective was not by his side, as he had been only a second earlier.

"Sherlock?"

He turned back, and saw Irene stepping gingerly off of the stairs, and Sherlock moving towards her. Her smugness, that wide, open smile on her face fell instantly. John liked to think that she had been caught, that she wasn't expecting Sherlock's arrival but he had _no idea_ what to expect from her anymore. She was nude apart from her golden feather fans, but she still had so many layers there, so many things that John couldn't see, couldn't even think to comprehend.

"Nero wouldn't have told you," she said, without preamble.

"It was simple enough once I worked out the missing piece," Sherlock responded. His eyes were locked on hers. How the hell he did that, John would never know. John was happily, _faithfully_ married to the most wonderful (albeit frustrating) woman on the planet, and even he felt his eyes drifting.

"And what was that, Mr. Holmes?" Irene demanded. "The money? The nail polish? Was I laying the friendliness on a bit too thick?"

"You," Sherlock responded. His voice was low. Something in how he spoke affected Irene, and she took in a sharp breath. It was similar to how Sherlock had gasped before when they were flirting on the rooftop of Bart's. It was almost---uncomfortably as John was to admit it--- _aroused_.

Sherlock leaned towards Irene, and she didn't pull back. "You're the _enemy_ ," Sherlock said, and although his voice was low, it somehow managed to carry all the way to John through the loud music of the club. While he was repeating the insult that John had said about Irene earlier, there was no venom in Sherlock's voice. No, the way he looked at Irene, well, John had certainly never had anyone look at him like that. Not outside of a bedroom, anyway. Hell, some of his former girlfriends didn't even look at him in the bedroom like that.

"Don't be dramatic, Mr. Holmes," Irene responded, her own voice equally low. Her eyes flickered down to Sherlock's lips. "I'm just playing the game."

"With the wrong pieces," Sherlock responded. He straightened then, and Irene seemed to move with him, just a fraction of an inch, enough to give away her disappointment at his movement.

"Mary Watson isn't your piece to play with," Sherlock said. "She's _mine_. And we agreed, we don't play with each other's pieces. Remember?"

Irene's lips turned upwards into a slow smirk. "What are you going to do about it?"

He smirked. "Punish you, of course."

God, the two of them were---this was actually happening, wasn't it? Right in the middle of a club? While Irene Adler was wearing absolutely nothing?

"Can we not do this right now?" John snapped. "Please? Can we save this bit for later? I need to know where Mary is, right now!"

The two of them turned as one to face John, as though they had both suddenly realized that he actually existed and was on the same planet that they were. _God_ he hated them so much at this exact moment.

"Secondary basement," Irene said. "I sent her downstairs twenty minutes ago."

"All right," John replied. "We're going down there right now to get her."

Sherlock nodded, and gestured to the other lift. "Take that one. We'll take this. Different locations, might find her faster." 

"We?" Irene said.

"You know this place better than we do," Sherlock said. "Don't argue, help. Maybe you can convince John not to just burn all of the money when we find it." Sherlock looked in John's direction. "I doubt it, but you're the master of manipulation, not me."

As Sherlock walked towards the other elevator, he tugged off his coat and pulled it over Irene's shoulders.

John punched the button for the lift. He heard a ding, but his own lift hadn't opened up, he turned around to see Irene fastening Sherlock's coat as she stepped inside. Sherlock hit the button and turned back towards Irene, his Woman.

She stepped towards him and put her arms around his neck as the doors started to close. He leaned down, and their mouths just met as the lift doors shut, sending them downstairs.

John shook his head. "What the _hell_ is wrong with them?"

There was another ding as his own elevator opened. John turned back around, and a large man in a business suit stood in the center of the lift.

"Going down, Dr. Watson?"


	10. Too Many Detectives

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John Watson is pinned between two dangerous men who know the secrets of the place Irene Adler is robbing. What will he do to fight his way out, help save Mary, Sherlock, Irene, and stop them?
> 
> And what will he learn along the way? What happens when John Watson becomes the man with all the answers to the mysteries the foursome are facing?

"So you're not going to tell me how you know who I am, then?"

"You're half of the most famous detective duo in all of London, Dr. Watson, I imagine you already know. So shut up."

The lift shut behind John, as he stood wedged between the large man and his muscular bodyguard. John wasn't Sherlock. He didn't see things that Sherlock might. He tried to read what Sherlock would in the men surrounding him, but he imagined he fell incredibly short.

The large man was probably not in charge. A second in command, maybe? He was in charge of the muscular man. The large man didn't have a gun, where the bodyguard wore one on his hip, open and comfortable. The large man wore two---no, three gold rings. Probably gold? Definitely gold. He was bald, but it was the kind of bald that came partially with age and partially with aesthetics, so---

God, he was terrible at this.

Okay, no. No, John needed to think about this. The large man knew his name. The large man knew his name, and wore big, heavy gold rings on his fingers. The other man was also big, but more muscular, no rings on his fat fingers. No, not fat. _Clubbed_. The way his fingers were splayed out. Clubbed, kind of reddish in tone. John glanced down. The man's shoes were too small for his frame. Numbness in the toes?

Look where Sherlock would look. Bulge in upper pocket. Reading glasses. On a man this young? That was vision loss. John wondered if Sherlock would see recent re-tailoring of his fine suit, showing weight loss.

"So, how long's your diabetes gone untreated, then?" John inquired. "Because from the nerve damage in your feet and the amount of working out you do, I'm thinking you're only a few months away from a heart attack, at the outside."

He hoped he didn't sound _too_ casual. Sometimes Sherlock's casual tone could make him come off as an enormous arse. Which, John supposed, didn't really matter in this case. He wasn't looking to be nice, he was looking for the man to turn and look surprised, the way clients did whenever Sherlock deduced something painfully private.

Result. The bodyguard's eyebrows nearly shot to his hairline, and he looked at John, stunned at the doctor's deduction. Heh, _deduction_. Sherlock would get a kick out of that.

With the man's guard dropped, John turned, delivering a solid punch to his solarplexus, and then an elbow to his throat, blocking his ability to shout. A kick to his tibia, which sent the man immediately to the ground, and another elbow, this one to the back of the neck, rendering him unconscious. The entire process took just under ten seconds, and John reached down, relieving the man of his gun.

"Now," John said, voice calm and casual. "Tell me how you know my name."

"Arse," the large man said, cowering back against the lift door.

"With a gun," John reminded him. "So let's try this again. Because Sherlock Holmes can deduce you, but I know every bone in your hand _and_ how best to break them."

\----

 

It didn't require any bone-breaking to get the information out of the fat man in the lift. What it would require was a _lot_ of bloody luck to get himself, Mary, Sherlock, and Irene Adler out of this place alive with what John just learned.

The sign by the lift said "Secondary Basement", but John had a feeling it was a whole lot deeper than that. This whole place was a whole lot deeper than any of them imagined.

He had a feeling Irene was going to be _furious_. Good. She deserved it.

He left the large man unconscious by his bodyguard in the lift, and started down the hallway, gun out, ready to shoot anyone who might come in the way. Find Irene. Find Sherlock. Find Mary. God, find Mary. Get them all out of here right away. Get back to Baker Street.

The hallway was shorter than the length of the dancefloor, with a large concrete wall separating John from wherever the lift that brought Irene and Sherlock down came out. Brilliant, just _bloody_ brilliant. They could be anywhere in this place.

The hallway of the basement was abysmally unlit, with long rows of fileboxes half-opened, and papers laying in disarray across the concrete floor. It was disorganized in the way that an Italian Mafia with an information-collecting scheme wouldn't be. God, he hoped wherever Sherlock was, he was seeing this, too.

There was the sound of something metal banging hard against something hollow down the end of the corridor. John's gun went up, and he started forward. Someone else was here. Could be friend. Most likely, foe.

He turned the corner to find a large man on the ground, unconscious. A blow to the head, it looked like. From the bruising---maybe the butt of a gun?

Another bang. John looked up, and saw movement down the hallway, near one of the fileboxes. Gun up, he stepped forward. One step, two. He could corner whoever it was faster than---

In a flash of gold, he was suddenly facing the person by the fileboxes. Dressed in a knee-length gold dress, chopped black wig, and long gold eyelashes was Mary. His own gun was pointed directly at him. Her face was twisted, angry, ready to attack. Unafraid.

There wasn't even a heartbeat of hesitation before she lowered her gun. Her face went from attacker to herself so fast it nearly caused John whiplash.

"Oh, god, John," she said. Her voice was breathy, thick with shame. God, John could only hope that was shame, because it was what she _needed_ to be feeling right now.

He lowered his own gun. "Why?" he snapped. "Why did you listen to her? Why are you _here_?"

"I was going to tell you," she started.

"Oh, you were, now?" John snapped. "Because I don't think you were. Nero was supposed to keep the two of us out until _after_ you two bloody well got back, so no, I don't think you were."

Mary's face hardened. Just slightly. It was that face she made when she was going to stand firm to something, when she believed she was right. It was a wonderful face when she was defending John or Sherlock, awful to argue with, and _impossible_ to deal with right now.

"No, _don't_." John raised up a hand. "Don't _start_. The one thing, the one _bloody_ thing we agreed on was that you would be honest with me. No more lies, Mary. And then you follow her and her bloody plan _here_."

"I never made any promises about staying away from danger, John, god knows you don't!" she replied, voice sharp and suddenly vicious. "I get to stay at home and what? Tend your wounds like a dutiful wife, when I could be out here, _helping_?"

"This isn't helping! This is putting yourself, putting our child in _danger!_ "

Mary's voice became a shade desperate. It was a tone John had never heard from her before. She sounded almost--- _lost_. "This isn't about our daughter, John, this is about _me_! I need to be _me_ , I need to do something!"

A laugh bubbled up in John's throat. A harsh, cynical laugh. "So that's it, then? That's the line she used on you, that's the manipulation? You're not being yourself?"

"Something she'd have come to on her own eventually, I'm sure." The unwanted melody of Irene Adler's voice drifted over Mary's head, somewhere behind her. Mary spun around to find Irene and Sherlock, standing at the end of the corridor where it turned into another row of fileboxes.

"This is a good domestic to have, John, but we need to have it elsewhere," Sherlock said. "I assume you've already worked out----"

"That this isn't really the stronghold for the Italian crime family's information stores?" John all but snarled in his friend's direction. "Yeah, got that."

Sherlock had the damn _audacity_ to look insulted by John's words. Clearly he was going to show just how brilliant he was through deduction, but John had figured it out with a bit of, well, muscle. It was good enough for this situation.

"So we need to find it," Irene said. "I _need_ what's on those bills."

John let out another laugh. "She's not as clever as you think, Sherlock, you might want to trade up."

Sherlock's face fell a bit more. Clearly he had no idea. God, none of them had any idea. This must've been what it was like being Sherlock, being the only one in the room who knew what was going on, and they were all looking like they should know, but they didn't.

No wonder Sherlock was always so annoyed with everyone.

"There is no money. There is no scheme to make these bills." John let out an irritated sigh. "All of your planning, Miss Adler, has been absolutely in vain. Or, more actually, what they were hoping for. They're trying to rope in a bigger source of information, and for that, they need its weak point."

"What source of information?" Mary asked. "What are you talking about?"

"Who's the biggest source of secrets you know?" John said. "Except for, _maybe_ Mycroft Holmes?"

There was silence. Silence, followed by all eyes turning to the dark-haired woman wearing Sherlock Holmes' black coat.

"Me?"

John nodded. "Someone found out you were alive, so they wanted to rope you in. Gave you a client, gave him the bait, then killed him to make certain you believed it. They've been following you ever since you came to London, tracking what you do, who you talk to. Looking for the weak point, something to hold over you, something to make certain they can get every secret you have in your brain."

Irene's eyes widened. John wasn't often certain he was seeing real emotions with Irene Adler. She was such an excellent actress, so well versed in showing what she wanted others to see. But right now, the fear on her face was real, the shocked horror. She knew what John had worked out back in the lift, and what he imagined the crime family had to know by now.

" _Nero!_ "

The foursome raced back to the lift, which had been attempting to close on the large man's arm unsuccessfully.

"Two men," Mary snapped. "Two men, and one of them had a gun, and you're mad at _me_ for dressing in this and digging around a basement."

"You're pregnant!"

"Would you stop bringing that up!"

Sherlock interjected. "In John's defense, you _are_ at a stage in your pregnancy where stress could be---"

"Sherlock, you know I love you, but _stay out of this_ ," Mary all but growled.

Irene snorted and kicked the arm of the man out of the way of the door. "And this is exactly why I didn't have you involved in any stage of my pregnancy, Mr. Holmes."

"Not interested in my input?"

"Not even slightly."

John's turn to interrupt. "Listen, they're going to be trying to get Irene _now_ , because she's separated from Nero, and, in their minds, probably vulnerable. That's why they sent these two after me, it has to be. It's not going to be that easy to get out."

Sherlock let out a laugh. "Of course it is."

Once, Sherlock explained to John that the concept of having something someone wanted wasn't good enough. It was showing how easily that something was destroyed. You could have a document worth a lot, but it was only bargaining if you were willing to give it back. It was threatening if you were going to burn it. You didn't have to _give_ it, then, you just had to not destroy it. This way, you won. You got to take the object in question, and the person who wanted the object had to comply.

And since Sherlock was a self-proclaimed sociopath with a gun and Irene Adler, it was easy enough for him to hold a gun to her head and proclaim that he would shoot her if anyone attempted to stop them.

"Her brain is what you want, and I _will_ put it out all over this wall if you don't move!" Sherlock shouted, holding the gun to her head. Irene, for her part, didn't bother looking frightened. She didn't have to, everyone in the club was terrified of the man with the gun and what appeared to be the dancer he had held hostage. None of the men with guns, none of the bouncers, stopped him.

John held his own gun with one hand, and his wife with the other. Mary didn't shake, didn't appear frightened at all. John could remember the hostage situation so many years ago with Sarah, and how she just shook in his arms as he took her away from the police. She was so _scared_. Mary wasn't even frightened. She was simply part of this, the way he was. Maybe that's all she wanted. She just wanted to be part of this with him.

"Step back from the door, let us pass or I _will_ kill her!" Sherlock demanded. The bouncer at the door, now holding his broken hand, glared at Sherlock as he stepped aside.

"So do it."

The voice that appeared behind them was deep, feminine. Accented, just slightly. Sherlock turned, still holding Irene by the arm.

Behind them stood a very tall, heavyset woman. She had short cropped hair that was moussed up in a weird sort of pompadour, and bright red spectacles on the edge of her nose. She was the only woman in the entire establishment in a business suit. Behind her was the large man from the lift, the one who told John everything that had been happening. He must've told her what was going on, that John knew what they wanted.

"Go on, Mr. Holmes," the woman said. "If you're going to threaten us. Kill her. We won't have any need of bargaining tools then. Marco, block their way."

The man with the broken hand moved back between Sherlock and the door, but Mary moved first, stepping up and throwing a sharp right hook, which instantly floored the man.

"Run, get out!" she shouted. Irene and Mary took off first, racing towards the car, followed by Sherlock. John lingered, staying back to look at this woman, who appeared nonplussed by the injured man at the doorway and the fact that her quarry was running away.

"Who are you?" John demanded.

"Wilma Ormstein," the woman replied. "Ask her about me, she'll only tell lies."

"Doesn't sound Italian," John said.

"Do I look Italian to you?"

To be honest, John had absolutely _no idea_ what an Italian was supposed to look like outside of a gangster movie, so he simply assumed this Wilma woman was being rhetorical.

"Leave her alone," he said. "Whatever business you two have, it's over. Leave her alone, and leave him alone."

"We've been watching, we knew you would try to protect him," Wilma Ormstein said. "But you won't succeed. We know how to get what we want."

"John!" Sherlock called from the carpark.

"John!" Mary echoed.

Wilma smiled. "Run away, John Watson. We will be seeing each other very soon."


	11. Die Like A Dog

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's a race back to 221 Baker Street to get to Nero before Irene's enemies do. But the punishment that's waiting for her is far more terrible than anything she could imagine.
> 
> And what will become of Mary and John? How will their marriage cope with the strain of Mary's new lies?

The drive back to Baker Street was painfully silent. Well, painfully silent for John, at least. He couldn't look at Mary, sitting next to him in the passenger seat, picking glue out of her eyelashes, and he wanted Sherlock to be the one to break the subject of who the hell that woman was back at Casa Sotelio with Irene Adler, but he didn't seem interested in talking at all.

No, the two of them sat in the back seat, staring out opposite windows, with their hands between them, untouching but millimeters apart. Whatever happened between them in that elevator and while they were separated from John, it apparently reverted them back to flirtation mode. Apparently, now it was okay to slowly inch one's fingers closer and closer to the other on a long and _painfully awkward_ drive back.

Mary finally broke the silence.

"Sherlock, have you tried calling Mrs. Hudson?" she asked. "Making sure she knows someone might be coming for Nero?"

Sherlock waved dismissively with his other hand. "I sent her a text."

"It's a bit more important than just a text, Sherlock," Mary said. "What about Nero? Does he have a mobile?"

"No." Both Sherlock and Irene replied at the same time.

Irene glanced in Sherlock's direction, and then clarified: "He's lost the privilege for the next few years."

"I assume there was a reason for that," John said. "There are plenty of children his age with phones."

Practically as one, both Sherlock and Irene shifted uncomfortably in the back seat. It was the sort of awkwardness one would expect out of a couple of teenagers caught doing something really inappropriate, not out of two parents discussing their child. But, then again, John knew that whatever the hell went on between Irene, Sherlock, and their child was really strange in general.

"He convinced the Woman he was me on his mobile," Sherlock said.

Irene's voice instantly became indignant. "He tricked you first, and you know it. You booked the ticket to Paris long before we were scheduled to go there."

"He did not _trick_ me. _I_ knew something was amiss."

"I should've realized it when you arrived with _roses_. I can't believe you thought I would instruct you to bring flowers, of all things."

"Paris?" John asked. "Wait---was this a few months ago? When you suddenly had a case in France for a few days?"

Sherlock shifted again. He pointedly looked out the window. Oh, this was bloody _rich_.

John barked out a laugh. "Are you trying to tell me that your son doesn't have a mobile because he tries to play _matchmaker_ with you two?"

"He's learned vocal cadence in texting far too quickly for my liking," Sherlock mumbled.

"Yeah, and hopefully he's not been captured by these people," Mary interjected. "Honestly, what _is_ going on? Who was that woman?"

"No one of importance," Irene replied, her own gaze turning back to the window.

John shook his head. "She's trying to kidnap your child, Irene. I think she's of a bit of importance, now, and we need to know what we're dealing with."

Irene didn't reply. John couldn't tell if she was embarrassed or---more likely---holding it all close to her chest. She liked to keep her cards close until the moment she needed to give them up, and if that time was _never_ , that was just fine with her. At this exact moment, John really hated her more than ever. She had put some sort of idea of inadequacy in Mary's head, and she was twisting Sherlock up tighter than ever, and now she wasn't even trying to explain whoever the hell this Wilma woman was.

"Wilma Ormstein," John said. "She told me you'd tell us nothing but lies."

"German," Sherlock said. "Formerly a royal. Malignant narcissist. Deeply intelligent, probably graduated at a very young age, going from her shoes."

"Her shoes?" Mary asked. Oh, god, she was getting as bad as John at prompting Sherlock.

"Twist out to the edge where she pulled on the heel. That's the sign of someone who started wearing them far too early, learned balancing in heels long before they learned how to properly put on a shoe. Growing up fast, that plus the fact that she's clearly got two doctorates, one in electrical engineering, the other in---philosophy, I'd say. Something to make herself appear more rounded out, more knowledgeable."

"How did you see that?" John asked.

Irene let out a little laugh. "You keep the two of them on a short leash, I see."

"Shut up," Mary barked. "Seriously. Because I listened to you about _anything_ , I've got a big wedge in my marriage I've got to work out. I get relationships don't mean much to you, but they do to me, and your comments aren't wanted, you got it?"

"Do you expect me to apologize?" Irene asked, her voice absolutely unaffected by Mary's anger.

"No, I expect you to shut it. We're running back to fix your mess and save your kid. And all you know how to be is _snide_."

Irene shrugged. She didn't shrug the way normal people shrugged. It was an elegant, sort of full-body shrug that jostled her hair perfectly and appeared to be a dance move in its grace. It was in the same vein as to how Sherlock sighed when he was annoyed. To John, it was _unbelievably_ irritating.

"I suppose it's about time you _saved_ a child, Mrs. Watson," Irene said, turning back to the window.

The car fell silent at those words, and John tried everything to not let them settle under his skin. He knew whatever was in the USB he burned was something Mary said would make him not love her anymore. Did she murder children? Did she torture them? How many? _Why_? No. No, he wouldn't let that fester. He wouldn't think about it. It was what Irene wanted. And John would be damned if he'd give Irene anything she wanted.

He pulled the car to a stop in front of 221 Baker Street, and Irene and Sherlock all but leapt out of the car towards the door. John couldn't see any immediate signs of a break-in. No door off the hinges. No damage to the front stoop.

Sherlock shoved the door open, and behind it was a frazzled, upset looking Mrs. Hudson. Oh, god. Mrs. Hudson. John hadn't even thought what the people looking for Nero might've done to her.

"Sherlock, I'm so sorry!" Mrs. Hudson cried out. "I tried, but he just wouldn't listen!"

Irene's face was twisted with terror. All of her calculated calm from seconds earlier was gone. Her child, in danger. Her only child. Layers upon layers of emotion washed across her face as Mrs. Hudson spoke.

"What happened?" she demanded.

"Oh, hello, dear," Mrs. Hudson said. "It's---Mrs. Wolfe, isn't it?"

"Where is he?" Irene snapped. "Where's Nero?"

Mrs. Hudson pointed towards the stairs. "He's---he's upstairs, love." She turned back to Sherlock. "I did what you asked, and I tried to show him the ones you wanted, but he wouldn't listen when he got his heart set on that one. And I'm so sorry!"

Irene stopped listening, and took the stairs up to Sherlock's flat two at a time. Even in her heels, she was graceful and elegant, moving like she was supported by wires as she ran. Sherlock followed after her, and the door to the flat was thrown open. John raced after, taking everything just a little slower than his long-legged companions.

"What did Sherlock ask about?" Mary inquired.

"Oh, Mary," Mrs. Hudson said, beaming at her. "Oh, the _dog_ , of course."

A loud bark greeted them from upstairs.

When John got to the top of the stairs, he found Sherlock standing near the door, with Irene by his side. Where her face had been raw with fear only a few seconds earlier, now it was practically red with fury. Standing before them was Nero, beaming like it was Christmas morning, and the ugliest dog John had ever seen.

It was a mid-sized grey dog, with a good bit of Airedale terrier in it, but its hair was longer, scragglier, and it had huge paws that didn't seem to fit its body at all. It also had a really large tongue, which it was currently using to kiss Nero's face with.

"Mum! Mum, look! Father got me a dog! This is Playback! Look!" There was no real way to measure the pure, childlike delight on the boy's face. Sherlock looked down at his son, and John could swear he saw jealousy on Sherlock's face for a few seconds before it, along with all other emotions, vanished.

Irene's voice was cold steel. "Believe me, Nero, I'm looking."

The dog---Playback, apparently---barked again, and ran in little circles around Nero, practically knocking the boy off his feet before throwing its backside up in the air in a playful gesture. Considering how much of Sherlock's paperwork was now on the floor, this sort of game had apparently been going on for quite some time.

"And because she's not a Kennel dog, we had enough money we could buy accesso---accessor---accessories so we can take her on the planes!" Nero explained, excitedly. "She's just the right size to fit in first class compartments, I checked, I brought measurement tape!"

"How conscientious of you," Irene replied. Her eyes stayed locked on Sherlock's.

Sherlock _smirked_. It was the most devilish and cruel smirk that John had seen out of his friend in a very, _very_ long time.

"I did say you should be punished."

She scowled. "I was hoping for something a little more enjoyable."

"Then it wouldn't be a punishment, would it?"

Her lips thinned in barely contained fury, and her fingers flexed, curling and uncurling. John wondered briefly if she were wishing for her old riding crop beneath her fingers or Sherlock's neck. 

It could have been either.

"Well done, Mr. Holmes," she said, her eyes like ice as she turned deliberately away from the sight of her son and his new pet to face Sherlock. "You got him exactly what _you_ wanted, knowing full well a pet would keep us from traveling quickly when the necessity arose. And ensured I can't get rid of it without being eternally despised by my own child."

She glared at him and for a moment John wondered if she would tackle Sherlock and dig those long nails into his eyes, and felt himself tensing in case things got violent. He knew Sherlock was more than a capable fighter, but with how enraged she was? He might need the help of both John and Mary to pull her off should Irene snap.

But she merely glared and turned away, sweeping into the kitchen of Baker Street, practically leaving frost in her wake. But as she spun away, John could have sworn he saw the barest hint of a smile turn up the corner of her mouth, so quickly gone that he wondered if he had imagined it.

Sherlock's face had gone blank for a moment, and John wondered if Sherlock was thinking he may have gone too far, but it was always impossible to tell, the man was just too difficult to read. And after everything that had happened today, it was only more difficult. That was the word for today, now that John thought about it. _Difficult._

Mary appeared at John's side, letting out a little noise. "That," she muttered. "Is the ugliest dog I have ever seen. Where did he manage to find that?"

"I don't know," John replied in an equally low tone. "But I have a feeling it's going to spend a lot of time at Baker Street."

Playback vanished under Sherlock's table, and returned with a black high heel in its mouth. This was a very well-chewed high heel at this point, with the red lining at the bottom of the heel torn up and covered in slobber.

"If the dog manages to _survive_ ," John added.

Sherlock knelt down, giving the dog a pat on the head. "Good _boy_ , Playback!"

He was well aware that those were Irene's shoes, of course. He was also well aware of how expensive Irene's shoes were. What the hell kind of relationship did the two of them have?

"Good _girl_ , Father," Nero corrected him.

"Hmm?"

"Playback's a girl."

"Nonsense," Sherlock responded. "All dogs are boys. All cats are girls." God, he sounded absolutely serious. John remembered believing that all dogs were boys back when he was very, _very_ young, but he'd learned that was a silly idea right around the time that he learned to tie his shoes.

Mary let out a laugh. "You know that's not actually physically possible, right? You've got to have a boy and a girl in order to make puppies."

Sherlock blinked a few times, and nodded. "I thought it just sort of---"

"Happened?" John finished for him.

Mary sighed. "Please don't be the one who gives Nero 'the Talk', yeah?"

Irene appeared, now in a different dress, holding one of her black high heels. "Nero, have you seen----?"

Playback looked up from her chew toy, and one of her ears perked up, while the other remained flopped down against her face. Her look of absolute innocence despite holding the object in question could only be mirrored by the absolute innocence on both Nero and Sherlock's face. God, John had no idea how he managed to miss that Sherlock was Nero's father for so long. The two of them could pull the exact same bloody face without missing a beat.

Irene's jaw set, and she tossed the other shoe to the ground.

"They could just kidnap the dog," she muttered, turning to head back to Sherlock's bedroom.

John's eyes followed Irene. "How many outfits of hers do you have here, Sherlock?"

Playback rolled over on her back, and Nero was happily scratching her belly while Sherlock watched. It was obvious the boy was delighted to have a friend, particularly one who was so animated and pleased with him in general. Nero's parents were so _calculated_ and _cold_ , where the dog was one bundle of energy and stupid happiness.

"Who's planning on kidnapping me, Father?" Nero asked, not breaking from scratching the dog's stomach. The way he spoke, it made the idea of being kidnapped sound almost like commonplace, like it was something Nero had experienced before. John looked over to Mary, who's stunned expression showed she drew the same conclusion.

"Someone I've never met before," Sherlock said. "Someone bad."

"Mum knows a lot of bad people," Nero said.

Sherlock nodded. "She's a bit of a bad person sometimes, too. But I think you already knew that."

"She says the same thing about you," Nero agreed. "But she says that's why she likes you."

" _Nero_." Irene's voice came from next to John again, this time in a warning tone. Now, she was in a blue dress, with matching blue heels.

"Four," John said. "That's four outfits of yours he has, so far."

"I needed the extra closet space," Irene replied, tartly. "Now, Nero, darling, we are going to need to leave."

"I'm too bedsleepy, can't we stay?" Nero said. The way he said 'bedsleepy' was purposefully childlike, and clearly to invoke his age to Irene. She shot him a look to tell him she was well aware that was what he was doing.

Sherlock got to his feet. "We could work out how, precisely, to stop Wilma from coming after Nero whenever he arrives in London."

"Who says we're coming back?" Irene inquired.

"You always come back."

Always? John looked at the two of them, and then down to their strange son. What sort of a family was this? Why didn't they make any sense to anyone but themselves? Or, at least, why didn't they make any sense to John?

Mary nudged John's arm, and nodded towards the kitchen. What? Did she somehow understand this, too? Want them to have some sort of privacy in their awkward flirting? John let out a grunt of annoyance, and followed her into the kitchen. Playback gave a bark at their departure, but she apparently liked to give a bark at just around everything.

"What is it?" John whispered to his wife.

"Give them a few minutes," she replied. "They need a few minutes."

"Oh, you're an expert on 'them', now, are you?"

Mary gave him a Look. "You know, we usually say he's the one who hasn't got a clue about human interaction, but sometimes you really miss the obvious, you know that?"

"I suppose you're going to say that includes not noticing that you want your own place in Sherlock's mysteries?" John said. This was unwarranted, he supposed. Unfair. He didn't really care. No, he did care. He cared, because the hurt that was on Mary's face wasn't fair. He never wanted to hurt her.

He felt a buzz in his pocket. He glanced to the room next door. Mary, Sherlock, Mrs. Hudson…who else would be messaging him?

He pulled his mobile out, and his eyes widened. This was not good.

"Sherlock!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Extra special thanks to Lyrangalia for all her help with Irene's voice in this chapter! This whole monster of a story is dedicated to you, and this part especially! You're the Arctic Wind beneath my wings!


	12. A Family Affair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An unexpected visitor arrives for Sherlock and Irene. Will Playback be the hero that keeps him away?
> 
> And what lengths will Irene go to protect Nero from Wilma Ormstein and the Casa Sotelio?

"Sherlock!"

John stepped into the main room, mobile in hand. Playback the dog was still laying on her back, belly being scratched by Nero, but now Irene was immediately in front of Sherlock, her body up against his. In the time that John and Mary were in the kitchen, the two of them had, apparently, moved towards each other into something akin to an embrace. A smear of red lipstick was across Sherlock's bottom lip. 

Had they gone from arguing to snogging? That quickly? Honestly? John hadn't been gone five minutes! Nero didn't seem affected by any of this, so it couldn't have been that unexpected (and, apparently, the boy _did_ like to play matchmaker with his parents).

Irene took a step away from the detective, though not with any sort of demure embarrassment. No, that sort of behavior definitely wouldn't suit the person that Sherlock referred to as 'the Woman'. She simply took a step back, allowing Sherlock to focus on John.

"What is it?" Sherlock demanded. Sherlock, for his part, didn't bother wiping away the lipstick he was now wearing on his lower lip. John didn't imagine Sherlock was unaware that it was there, he probably saw no reason to remove it. After all, he would probably kiss Irene again, and John was already aware they were kissing in the first place.

John started, but then held up his phone. "I got a text."

"So," Sherlock replied. "You have friends. Not many, but some, and it does happen. I imagine they want to know how you are, or want to get a drink, or---"

"From _your brother._ "

Sherlock's mouth shut with an audible _click._ Irene's eyebrows went up, and even Nero looked up at his parents expectantly.

John cleared his throat and held up the phone. "It says, 'I enjoyed the show, I will be by presently. Tell Sherlock to prepare himself.'"

"The show?" Mary asked. "Has he been watching everything on CCTV, then? Does he _know_?"

"It's impossible," Irene replied. "Nero and I never arrive here together, always separately."

Sherlock shook his head. "I always expected he would _eventually_ work it out---"

"Eventually?" John was surprised. After all, there was very little Sherlock liked more than tricking his older brother. But tricking him with the knowledge that he would figure it out, especially something as serious as the life of another human being, well, that was---to put it bluntly--- _completely dickish._

"Of course he would," Sherlock responded. "Mycroft is clever, and the Woman and I are imperfect in our methods of meeting."

"Mr. Holmes, remember to speak for yourself in these situations," Irene interjected.

"He would work out _something_ , at some point," Sherlock continued. "And that point is---"

There was a ring downstairs. That point, John thought, was _now_.

Playback let out a bark and rolled herself back to her feet. Irene promptly moved to her son and reached down to pick him off the ground.

"Which way?" she demanded.

"Into the bedroom," Sherlock said. To John's surprise, Irene didn't argue, she just took her son and immediately left for the bedroom, pausing only long enough to pick up her chewed-up heels from the floor. Playback was intrigued by the newcomer Mrs. Hudson was letting in the door and didn't even struggle with her new chewtoy.

Sherlock stepped over to the book on orchids and gave it a gentle kick under the table just as the door to the bedroom shut. He dropped down onto the couch with an exaggerated flop just as Mycroft's shoes hit the stairs heading upwards.

Mary, for her part, vanished. He could hear her put the kettle on in the kitchen. She always seemed to vanish whenever Mycroft Holmes appeared anywhere. Habit, she often told John. Before he'd learned of her past, she made it a point to avoid Mycroft at all costs, in case he might see through who she was or, worse, know her past from previous engagements. Now, Mycroft was just someone she didn't interact with.

Mycroft stepped up, and Sherlock rolled his eyes. Mycroft's eyes went from John to Sherlock, to the dog. Playback looked Mycroft up and down, and gave a playful bark in his direction.

Mycroft licked his lips and turned to his little brother.

"A new companion?" he asked. "Aren't we turning domestic? A new replacement for John Watson?"

"I am still here, you know," John said. "Just…not as frequently."

"I'm just holding her for a client, Mycroft," Sherlock muttered. He picked up a magazine, and held it in front of his face, pretending to read it. Oh, god. John just realized the lipstick was still there.

"Don't bother trying to hide it, Sherlock, I already know she's here," Mycroft said. His voice didn't even bother trying to hide his deep disgust for the situation. There was absolutely no love lost between Mycroft and Irene Adler. To him, she was the woman who nearly ruined everything he'd built, and tried to bring his brother down with it. No matter what Sherlock's affections for her were, he wouldn't bother trying to _like_ her.

John could only wonder what Mycroft's opinion would be if he knew that she had a child with Sherlock. Sherlock was worried that Mycroft would like Nero too much. John still wasn't quite sure what that meant.

"Even if you didn't have her shade of lipstick on your mouth, dear brother, your landlady always washes twice the amount of clothing when she visits, and you splash yourself with that ridiculous aftershave."

Aftershave? John noticed everything about Sherlock----to the point that Mary actually teased him about it, and regularly----but he never noticed aftershave.

"That's not even mentioning _her_ perfume." Mycroft turned to look at John. "And, of course, there's the little incident with my assistant and you three at Bart's this afternoon."

John nodded. "Oh, right. How did their date go, by the way?"

Mycroft scowled. It was really quite a wonderful sight. "Swimmingly, I'm sure."

"Well, if Anthea's been watching her, it's about time she had a push in the right direction," John added. He put on a mock surprised face for Mycroft's benefit. "Oh, but that'll mean she'll owe her thanks to Irene Adler for setting that up…"

Sherlock let out a laugh, and threw the magazine down. The lipstick had somehow vanished from his lip, but John imagined that Mycroft already knew it was there.

Playback let out an excited bark and hopped to her feet playfully. John had been privately hoping she would growl at Mycroft, but that didn't appear to be in her nature at all. However, the way she drooled near his shoes was enough to make Mycroft dramatically uncomfortable. 

"You had to get another dog," Mycroft grumbled. "Detective stories and beehives live forever, Sherlock. Dogs die, as you're aware."

There was an edge of harshness to Mycroft's voice, one that affected Sherlock. John couldn't always tell _how_ something affected Sherlock, but there was a shift in his face, like the humor in it vanished, and Sherlock's eyes went towards the kitchen, towards where his room was.

Was he worried that Nero would hear that? Did he think Nero didn't know dogs could die? Nero _was_ only four or five, maybe he didn't really understand death, didn’t know the new ugly dog he had would one day pass away.

The look wasn't lost on Mycroft. He glanced in that direction, and then back at his little brother.

"I’m certain Mary's daughter can't hear me through the womb, Sherlock, no need to worry." He gestured to the dog. "I assume that's who this is really for. But she won't be able to appreciate it for at least another few years."

"I told you, Mycroft, she's for a client."

"This is a _mutt_ , Sherlock, and your clients have money. This was bought with sentiment and sentiment alone in mind."

Playback let out a bark of excitement at all the attention. She was clearly unaware that Mycroft was putting down her breeding, she was just aware that he was talking about her.

"The big snout, the huge paws, all that hair. No, this is _not_ the dog of one of your clients. Certainly not one you'd have here when your _Woman_ is around." 

Mycroft reached out and took a hold of the dog's snout, as if to examine it. Playback gave a playful nip and another bark.

"Playback," John snapped. "Don't, you don't know where it's been."

Sherlock barked out a laugh. There was something that was almost playground bully-like about Mycroft, and that meant pulling him down a few pegs on a fairly regular basis. John didn't like seeing Nero's dog so put down. Yeah, the dog was ugly. Sure, she was worthless on a breeding scale. But dammit, she _clearly_ adored Sherlock's strange son.

"Playback," Mycroft intoned. "Her name is Playback."

He took a few steps forward, and reached his umbrella out, pushing aside a few of the papers on the floor. He leaned down and picked up a copy of _The Hardy Boys_ that had been buried there. How did Mycroft see that?

"Playback, like the parrot in these mysteries you used to read as a child," Mycroft said. His voice was quiet, distant. John turned to look at Sherlock, whose face was now tight, worried.

Mycroft turned his head sharply. "No."

"You're leaping to conclusions," Sherlock said. Oh, no. Sherlock never used the term 'leaping to conclusions', because he thought it was idiotic. Conclusions were there to be found, and then for Sherlock to just be insufferably smug about what he knew. Leaping to them was just a logical thing to do if they were within reach. Using that term now? He was trying to throw Mycroft off.

It was too late.

"If I have a nephew in this flat---" Mycroft tilted his head, and his voice was suddenly pleading. "Please tell me you haven't done something as _stupid_ as producing a child with that woman."

Mycroft turned and started towards the door. John looked to Sherlock, waiting for him to signal to Mycroft to stop. Stop, don't go in there. Don't open the door, don't interact with Irene or Nero. Don't----

Sherlock didn't stop Mycroft, and the door to the bedroom opened. John stepped up behind, following Mycroft into Sherlock's empty bedroom. The bed was made, the closet was cleared of all women's clothing, and there wasn't even a sign of the chewed-up high heels.

The window was also open.

Irene Adler's favorite method of entering and exiting a room apparently didn't end when she had her son with her. However, without any of her clothing, or even a trace of hers or Nero's presence in this room, it gave John the distinct impression that she'd never been here at all. That this last day had been a fantasy, an illusion.

Playback barked again from behind them and made a beeline to the room, running past John and through Mycroft's legs, nearly toppling him over. She leapt up, putting her two big paws on the windowsill, and began barking loudly out to the London night.

Her owner was gone. So was his mother.

+~

"What's going to happen now?"

"Hmmm? Oh, I suspect you and Mary are going to have a long talk about her behavior, you're going to realize she's probably right, and in the end nothing will really change."

John raised his voice. "I _mean_ , now that Mycroft knows that Nero exists, what's going to happen?"

Mycroft and Mary had left about two hours earlier. Mycroft left in a huff, because while he was sitting, trying to lecture Sherlock about his son, Playback managed to get a hold of his shoe and pull it off his foot. It was then impossible to reacquire said shoe, and the dog was now chewing happily on it.

An hour or so later, Mary was knackered and really needed to get the rest of the eyelash glue off of her face. John suspected she also wanted to give John and Sherlock some time to digest what they'd learned together. She always seemed to know that, to know when he needed some time with Sherlock. Even Mrs. Hudson was spending the night out with her sister. It was just them. Them, and the dog.

Sherlock sighed. "I imagine he's going to start checking birth records for the last few years in all of the countries he knows the Woman has been in until he finds what she's named him. And then we'll start getting formal invitations to Christmas dinners. Which she'll ignore, pointedly." A small, proud smile twitched at the edge of his lips. "Or she'll show up in a black dress and heels, just to throw my brother into an edge of despair."

At first, John didn't understand why Sherlock only referred to Irene Adler as 'the Woman'. It was caveman-like, in a you-Woman, me-Sherlock sort of way, or so he originally thought. Instead, John realized it was more than that. Yes, there were other _females_ in Sherlock's life. People he could register as being women and being associates or friends. But, to Sherlock, there was only one _Woman_. To him, Irene Adler eclipsed and predominated the whole of her sex. She was like his goddess. The goddess he worshipped and reviled all in the same moment.

"Do you think she's coming back?" John asked.

"She always comes back," Sherlock replied, staring into the fireplace.

John nodded. "You said that to her before. What do you mean, always?"

Sherlock didn't reply at first. What must that have been like, John wondered? To have been a lover to the person you deified so completely? Unsurprising that Sherlock would manage that challenge, but somewhat surprising that he managed to maintain their relationship for so long. Because that's what it was, wasn't it? A strange sort of relationship.

Playback dropped Mycroft's shoe to the ground with a loud thud, and let out a whine.

"Oh, I think she needs to go out," John said. It had been a long, cramped day inside a tiny flat, that was pretty unsurprising, really.

Sherlock gestured to the couch. "Nero bought her a leash, it's over there."

John glanced at the couch, and then back to his friend. "Oh, am I expected to walk her, then?"

"I'm thinking."

"You're always thinking," John replied. "But if she's left you with this dog, you're going to have to walk her when I'm not here."

"Mmmm."

John got the distinct impression that he was not being listened to. Considering how happy Playback made Nero, he really hoped Irene hadn't left her with Sherlock on a permanent basis. Considering how neglectful Sherlock could be of himself and other people, he _really_ hoped Irene hadn't left Playback with Sherlock on a permanent basis. All the same, John sighed, picked up the leash, and headed over to the dog to get her on a quick walk.

Playback was excited to walk London. John would have to remember to ask Mrs. Hudson where, exactly, they found this dog. She had an excited nose, a big bark, and no sense of danger whatsoever. Car? That's chaseable. Person? That's chaseable. Dog twice her size? That's chaseable! Oddly enough, she didn't _tug_ , even when she wanted to chase. That would make her an excellent dog for a little boy learning to walk her on a leash, really.

John really hoped Irene would be coming back. If not just for Sherlock, for Nero and this stupid pet. Nero clearly adored his father, and this dog, and, well, John didn't fancy the idea of coming over here every day to check on Playback and make certain she was still alive. But she was always so playful, maybe it wouldn't be so bad.

Playback let out her first non-playful bark upon returning to 221b. It wasn't just different in tone. It was different in nature. Her whole body seemed to seize up, and her long, scraggly hairs created almost a secondary halo around her.

"What is it, girl?" John asked, reaching for the door. He didn't have to push it open to know. The paint on the door by the handle was scraped away, someone had used a crowbar to open it.

John gave the door a push, and Playback pulled against the leash, growling and barking as she dashed up the stairs. She slid into place in front of Sherlock's chair, snarling.

Sherlock Holmes was nowhere to be seen.

John's gun was out. The place was still a mess, still the same as it had been, but now, in Sherlock's chair, there was a note stabbed into the leather with a long-bladed knife.

_I have your weak point. Give me what we want._

_-W.O._

It was never Nero. It had never been Nero. It was always Sherlock, and they were just waiting for the moment he was alone.


	13. The Second Confession

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With Sherlock kidnapped, John goes to confront the person that started all of this, and the only person who can stop it all.
> 
> And, finally at his wits' end, what will he do when confronted with the possibility that, with Irene Adler MIA, he may not be able to get Sherlock back?

What would Sherlock do in this moment?

John had often wondered what Sherlock would do if he, John Watson, died. Was murdered, really. Sometimes the thought was had when Sherlock hadn't eaten in four days and forgot which tap turned on the shower. Sometimes the thought came up when Sherlock was being obstinately protective of him from one of the boys at Scotland Yard. But the thought came up, and regularly. What would Sherlock Holmes do if something had happened to John Watson?

John decided that this is what would happen: Sherlock would purge himself entirely of emotion, take a breath, pull on his gloves, and strip the crime scene of evidence. He would become an empty hull of deduction, a vessel for catching whoever it was had murdered John, and he would. He would catch the murderer and---well, what happened next was still a matter up for debate, especially after what happened to Magnussen.

Now, staring at the note pinned to Sherlock's chair, John had to do the same thing. He couldn't think about Sherlock being captured. He couldn't think about what was happening to his best friend, and he couldn't allow himself to think about Sherlock Holmes being dead. The thought of Sherlock dying again brought a pain to John's chest, sharp and vivid, like the bullet that Mary shot through Sherlock months ago. He couldn't think about that. He had to look at the crime scene. Look at 221b Baker Street and be Sherlock Holmes.

He had to be Sherlock Holmes, because Sherlock Holmes wasn't there.

He tried to think what Sherlock would prompt him to look for. _Look at the room,_ Sherlock would say. _Look at what's_ obvious _._

John tried to remember the mess that was here before, all the rubbish on the floor, the way Nero and Playback where playing. He didn't have Sherlock's eidetic memory, so all the nuances were lost, but the papers seemed to still be in place. The book Mycroft picked up---that was still on the table. The mess hadn't changed.

"A struggle," John said aloud. There wasn't a struggle. Sherlock wasn't the kind of fighter that John was, he didn't fight with brute, contained strength. He fought nimbly, moving about the flat. He fought cleverly, and swiftly. He'd have, at the very least, moved all of the papers on the floor around with his feet.

No, Sherlock didn't fight in this room. What did that mean? Sherlock wouldn't have responded to a gun in the face, that wasn't his way. Tranquilizers? Someone bashed him over the head before he could turn round?

 _Simple, John,_ Sherlock's voice rang in his head. _Think about the simplest answers._

The simplest answer was that Sherlock just walked out of the room with them. Sherlock had done stupider, in the past. But this time, why would he?

"Oh, of _course._ "

He thought about the way Sherlock talked about Irene Adler. The way his lips upturned at her snide comments, the way he didn't flinch or blush at her touch. The way his voice seemed to _change_ when he said that she always came back.

They told him they had Irene. He wouldn't have struggled. Not even a little. He _cared_ about her too much.

John scowled and stepped over to the chair, pulling the knife out of the chair. He turned it over in his hand. Sherlock cared about Irene Adler and she wasn't even bloody here. She could've been in Timbuktu for all John Watson knew.

And they wanted Irene Adler. John didn't even have Sherlock's phone for those dummy phone numbers to try to call her. There was no way to trade Sherlock back. And no way to find her.

John would have to call Lestrade. Sherlock would be furious. John would be putting Irene in danger, and even now, even after all this bloody trouble, Sherlock would still want to keep her safe. God, he was _such_ an idiot. But it was that, or run the risk of these people killing Sherlock.

The pain in John's chest came back again. He didn't care if Sherlock hated him after this. He wouldn't let Sherlock die. He'd upturn the whole bloody planet to keep his best friend alive if he had to. He would not lose him again.

Playback let out a bark.

John spun around, flipping the knife around so it was at the ready. Its blade was pointed outwards, to the kitchen where a dark figure stepped towards him.

"There's no need to be so melodramatic, Dr. Watson. I've only come for my son's dog."

Irene Adler stepped into the sitting room, now in an elegant black traveling dress, with black stiletto heels, her hair up in a tight, intricate bun. How she climbed in the window with those heels was a mystery that John didn't have the time to wonder about.

John took a breath. "He's gone," he said.

Irene shrugged. "All the better," she said. "He hates goodbyes."

She knelt down and patted her knee to attract Playback towards her, but John crouched as well, grabbing the dog's leash and giving her a rough tug back in his direction. The Airedale let out a little yelp of surprise at his force, and Irene looked back at him, her eyebrows knitting together.

"I said you can put the knife down, Dr. Watson," she said, rising back to her feet. Her voice was different, now. More forceful. The dominatrix, trying to _dominate_ him.

John's face twisted into a rueful smile. He was _not_ one who enjoyed being dominated. Not in play, and _certainly_ not now. Right now, he was full of nothing but absolute hate for the person standing in front of him. The person who caused all of this.

"I said, he's _gone_. Taken by that woman."

Irene feigned ignorance. "What woman?"

"You know what bloody woman!" John shouted. "Wilma---Ormstein or whoever the hell she is! The one you tried to play!"

He threw the knife down on Sherlock's chair and grabbed the note, tossing it in her direction. She looked down at the ground where it fell, then knelt down, picking it up. She said nothing as she read it.

"But she got it all wrong, didn't she?" John said. "He's not your bloody weak point. You were about to leave him with this mess and you don't even care. He's just some sort of a bloody weekend game to you."

Irene's face was void, as cold and hard as a piece of bloody marble. She could have at least had the decency to look _ashamed_. She could have at least had the decency to _pretend_ to look ashamed!

John gestured with his free hand around the room. "There's no struggle. They told him they had you and he walked out of here. Walked out of here _for you_!" He pointed in her direction.

"Well, he should've known I don't get caught that easily," she said. Her voice was quiet, and her eyes were still on the note.

" _How,_ Miss Adler?" John snapped. "How could he have _possibly_ known that? When someone tells him that the woman he----"

Her eyes snapped up from the note to John's. Her eyes were blue and piercing like Sherlock's, and suddenly questioning. The woman he _what?_ , they seemed to demand. As if she didn't already know. She was trying to play John, the way she was playing Sherlock Holmes. John wasn't going to have that. Not now, not when his best friend was gone, not when his best friend was in this kind of danger and it was her fault.

"I used to think he couldn't care about people," John said, voice high and incredulous with frustration. "I used to think he didn't work that way, but we both know he does. And we both know, for reasons _I_ can't even begin to understand, he cares about you! And now he's in danger, in real, _real_ danger, Irene."

Irene shook her head, letting out a low, patronizing sigh. "Sentiment is a chemical defect---"

No. No, she was not playing this game. Not this time, not with Sherlock. Not with his words, thrown in John's face.

"Do you love him?" John demanded.

Irene's voice seemed to leave her, and she stared at him. The false void vanished, and the emotion that was left was one of confusion. A startled, almost frightened confusion, like John had just screamed at her in German or something. Considering her proficiency for international travel, John had a feeling that screaming at her in German might’ve been less frightening.

John raised his voice again. "Do. You. Love. Him? Answer the bloody question, Irene, because I don't care if you two were lovers or you have a child together, or spend long weekends playing games of croquet, because he cares about you enough to get himself trapped by these people---these people that will _skin someone alive_ to get your attention, so I need to know. Do you love him?"

Irene remained silent at first, and John could play that game. He could sit through Sherlock's silences for _hours_ to get an answer if he needed to. He could wait a few minutes to get one out of bloody Irene Adler.

When she spoke, her voice was flippant, and John knew it was the wrong answer before she even began. "Love is such an unnecessary and arbitrary---"

"Well, I do." John snapped. His voice broke, then, just a little. "I love him. " Three years ago, admitting he loved Sherlock Holmes was something that was out of the question. It would have made him feel like he was being _too gay_ or made him feel like he was being _too attached_ or some other nonsense. Now, having lost Sherlock for so long, having gotten him back, having lived through the things that he had, John could openly admit he loved his best friend. He loved Sherlock as a man could only love his other half, his partner in crime and crime-solving, and his closest friend. Sherlock was one of the most important people in the world to him, and John would be damned if any _insecurity_ kept that admission from coming into the open.

He continued, "You may have said we were a couple, and you can make any bloody gay joke you want, but I love him far more than you're even capable of. And right now, he's in danger. Danger you made. And since you don't love him, and since all you want to do is play games, I want you to leave."

Irene's mouth shut with a stunned click.

"I want you to leave, and I don't want you to come back," John continued. "I don't want you to make Sherlock Holmes your bloody weekend project, I don't want you to keep toying about with his heart, and I don't want you to keep playing games with him. I want you to take all of this that you've done, and I want you gone."

"But Nero---"

"Will learn to _get over it_ ," John shouted. "You're his mother, explain to him how badly you _fucked up_ your relationship with his father. Because that's what you've done, Irene. So long as he's still alive by the end of the night. You've _fucked up_ , and it's over."

Good. She looked properly ashamed, even just a shade of lost, like she didn't know what to say. It was about damn time.

If only John knew what to do. "And now, _they_ seem to think he matters to you, even though he doesn't. So I've got to go save him. On my own, because you'll be off somewhere else."

Without warning, Irene's face went from quiet to suddenly enraged. "Have you quite finished admonishing me?"

" _No!_ " John shouted. "No, I haven't! I want you gone!"

"You can't keep me away," she said.

"The _hell_ I can't!" He thrust Playback's leash in her direction. "I know every copper at Scotland Yard and I've got Mycroft Holmes in my mobile. And believe me, they're my backup plan."

She reached out her hand, curling her fingers around the leash. Where she found time to always have her nails manicured so perfectly went up there with how she got into the flat in those heels---mysteries John Watson didn't have time for right now. He released the leash, and Playback took a few steps towards Irene, letting out a pitiful little whine.

Irene took a breath, and her voice was calm again. "I can stay, I know what Wilma wants, I can---"

"What, help?" John let out a laugh. "Believe me, you leaving for good will be more than enough---"

"Have you considered the possibility that you're wrong about me?" Irene said. She knelt down again, this time to pet Playback, who was shaking somewhat with nervousness from John's anger.

"Nope," John replied. "Not even a little bit."

Irene straightened again. "Why would I burden myself with a child? With a dog I clearly don't want?"

"I don't care," John's voice began to rise again. "You play your games with your own people, but don't you _dare_ try to play them with me! I'm so _utterly_ beyond done, Irene."

"Try _not_ to shout at me again, Dr. Watson!" Irene's voice rose up, this time to her own shout. "I've had _enough_ of that, thank you!"

"Oh, have you, now?" John shouted. "Because you're still here!"

"I'm not leaving while she still has him!"

"Well, you're not helping _me!_ " John retorted. "Because I'm not having you and your games!"

"What if it's not a game?" Irene crossed her arms.

"And what if it _is_?" John said. "Because believe me, I don't care what you're trying to imply, you've _not_ said e- _bloody_ -nough for me!"

The room fell into uncomfortable silence, and John thought, just for a moment, that she would go. It was the way her fingers twitched around Playback's leash, the way her neck muscles tightened and her jaw clenched. She was angry, and John was fairly certain it was with him. Good. He didn't even have to care anymore, because there was nothing that Irene Adler could say in this moment to make him change his mind about her. Nothing. He was done with her, and done with every single game she was playing. Everything she had to say was---

"I do." Her voice wasn't the controlling dominatrix from before, but it was firm, secure. She looked up from the leash and stared at John. Despite the fact that John had seen her, on more than one occasion, without any clothing on at all, she seemed far more naked in this moment than ever before.

She let out a sigh. "Of _course_ I do."

John took a step back, feeling almost as though he'd been struck. Of course she loved him. She even said it in the same way that Sherlock told John half of the things he deduced were so _obvious_.

Was that why she didn't want to say goodbye? Was it truly because Sherlock hated goodbyes? Was that why she always came back? Was that why her clothing had begun to pile up in Sherlock's closet? Why her best games were played with the person whose brain she admired the most?

The simplest answers, Sherlock would have said.

John shook his head, and he gritted his teeth. "If you're lying---"

A small, defeated smile appeared on Irene's lips. "We both know I'm not." There was a slight pause. "But don't you _dare_ tell _him._ "


	14. The Father Hunt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock Holmes is a hostage, and it's up to Irene Adler, John Waston, and Nero Wolfe to save him. It's a race to the Casa Sotelio as their enemy is waiting for them, and knows they're out of resources and time.

Irene Adler led the way downstairs, not bothering with the window as the escape route. She stopped again to pick up Nero's book on orchids, and then began talking. As a woman who had said barely ten sentences to John in their time together, the fact that she began to spill out words to him now was almost jarring. It was as though John were talking to a female version of Sherlock, speaking to John in order to understand her own thoughts. He wondered, idly, if that's why she had girlfriends; in order to have someone to listen to her talk.

"Wilma's a cunning woman," Irene said. "Cruel, but cunning. She'll expect me to come with a plan, she always does. So we can't pretend we didn't arrive with one, just not the one she expects. She'll have all of the back ends of the club covered, since we know it's her behind this, she won't try to hide her influence anymore. We can expect an increase in security, probably an increase in violence, too----"

"Who _is_ she?" John demanded, as he took the stairs two at a time to keep up with Irene's long legs. "Seriously. Who. Is she? She said you'd tell me only lies about her, who says that?"

"A former client, of course," Irene replied, without any pause. "She was brilliant, and I knew what she liked."

John scoffed. No, something wasn't right with what she was saying. "No, I don't think so. You don't normally call your clients 'brilliant'."

"They normally aren't," she countered.

She threw open the door to 221 Baker Street, and sitting outside was a bright yellow sportscar. Large, customized wheels, purple trim along the edges, with tinted windows that were nearly black. John knew absolutely nothing about cars, otherwise he imagined he would be able to rattle off whatever expensive brand and make it was, because that car was flashy enough that people _recognized_ it. A few lads across the street were staring, gesturing at the car.

"Riding inconspicuously?" John asked, crossing his arms. "I suppose that's part of your escape plan?"

"As if anyone actually looking for me would expect one of the most expensive and sought-after cars on the market would contain me," she replied. "They'd look over it as being far too obvious for someone _laying low._ "

"And I suppose you know when the person who actually owns this will report it stolen?"

Irene smiled. "She's a bit tied up at the moment. What a _lovely_ thing she was, though. I may want to see her again."

John let out a sigh. "You love Sherlock, but you show him absolutely no loyalty whatsoever. He acts like you're his bloody paramour, won't talk to or touch another person---man or woman---and you have all these affairs like…"

Irene turned her head to face John. It was always a bit annoying that she was a little taller than he was, because she seemed to look down her nose at him, no matter the circumstances. That was _especially_ true right now, where she looked at him like he just suggested the stupidest thing she'd ever heard.

"And where would any loyalty of _that_ sort bring any utility to Mr. Holmes or, more importantly, myself? Affairs are useful, Dr. Watson. Chastity is for the ignorant. And Sherlock Holmes, according to you."

The 'more importantly' was fake. John could tell that. He was starting to read the little lines of nonsense in what she said, the way that Sherlock peppered his long monologues with ridiculousness in order to make himself sound more aloof than he actually was. They really were a pair, the two of them. All but _made_ for each other. When this was all done, they could bloody well have each other. John would make up with Mary and they were taking a long holiday until the baby was born. Somewhere warm, away from people with dark hair and cheekbones.

Irene lifted the door to the sportscar, where Nero sat in the back seat, tucked away. The chubby little boy's face lit up when he saw the dog. Despite how Irene professed a lack of caring, John could see she'd tucked a pillow under the boy, and against his back, and he had a bottle of expensive name-brand water next to him, as well as another book on orchids. She'd prepared him for a long drive away from London, for his own safety.

"Playback!" he exclaimed. The dog barked in glee, and barreled herself into the back seat into his arms. With the dog, the strange, precocious boy became a child again, and John found that really reassuring. It made him…wonderfully normal.

"Don't let him claw up the Italian leather, it's impolite." Irene said.

" _Her_ , Mummy," Nero said, giggling as the dog licked his face. "Did you bring me the book Father bought me?"

"I did," Irene said. "And now we've got to go get your father. He's done something stupid again."

"Again?" John queried.

His question was ignored, of course, as Irene went to lock back the passenger seat for John. Nero's face fell, and he held out a hand to Playback. "Down," he instructed. The dog calmed, and dropped down, placing her head in his lap instantly. John was impressed. Had Nero managed to teach the dog basic obedience training in the short time he'd owned her? Was this whole family just full of complete geniuses? John didn't need to ask that, of course they bloody were. Geniuses, and completely socially inept.

"They went for him, not for you," John said. "We're going to get him back."

It occurred to him that he shouldn't tell Nero about Sherlock being kidnapped, but Irene didn't seem affected at all. In fact, she merely shut the door and moved to the driver's side, only waiting for a moment for John to get in before she followed suit.

To Irene and Sherlock, it appeared that sugar-coating wasn't in their parenting repertoire. Perhaps it was because they didn't think their intelligent four-year-old would want to be treated like a child, or perhaps it was because they simply didn't know how to coddle.

"Yes," Irene agreed. "We're going to get him right now."

John pulled his door closed, and Irene peeled the car out of the spot like she was leaving a crime scene. In a way, John supposed she was. He felt his heart beat in a strangely calm, smooth rhythm, the way it did whenever he went on an adventure with Sherlock. This, this sort of rescue, that was something John understood. It was something that made his blood calm and boil all at the same time. It made sense, it made the world smooth. It wasn't children and manipulations and big political games.

It almost made John want to like Irene Adler. He wouldn't, but he almost wanted to.

"So this is it, then," Irene said, turning the car sharply down an alleyway. "This is what you _like_. That thrill of adventure."

John glanced back at Nero, who was petting the calm Playback's head.

"I don't think this is----"

"Oh, Dr. Watson, he's listened to far more scandalous conversations. What he doesn't understand, he asks about," she replied. "But I knew it was something. Something about him you _liked_ , something that kept you coming back. And it's this."

John straightened in his seat. Irene was determined to make certain he didn't like her, then. That was fine. He didn't have to.

"I told you my feelings about Sherlock Holmes," John said. "I'm not repeating myself, and I don't need to."

"I believe you," Irene replied. "It's just interesting. Knowing what makes you tick. After all, you're one of the things that makes him tick."

John looked over at Irene. In the dark car, with the occasional streetlamp shining through the tinted windows, she was like a shadow, all white cheekbone and deep mystery. Something exotic and strange with information in her brain worth killing for. And, for some reason, she thought knowing what made John Watson tick was _interesting_. John felt oddly flattered.

"Sherlock doesn't need me to tick," John replied. "He does just fine on his own."

Irene let out a low breath, something that sounded almost like a sigh. "You're very wrong, Dr. Watson. He'll never admit it, no more than I will what I told you."

"What did you tell him, Mummy?" Nero inquired.

"Never you mind, dear," Irene said, glancing back at her son through he mirror.

John shook his head. What a strange family. Broken up, twisted, and yet still functioning. With a four-year-old still trying to play matchmaker.

"Do we have a plan?" John asked. "Because, unless you've got more surprises for me, we've got one gun, and they're ready for us."

"We walk in," Irene said. "We need to look like we had another plan. You go around back, look like you didn't know they would have security---"

"But, Mummy, they know Dr. Watson is clever. He knocked out two guards really fast!" Nero said.

Irene's eyebrows knitted together. "Not clever. They know he's brash."

"I could be taking you in as hostage," John suggested. "Because they know I don't care for you."

"Can I help?" Nero offered. "Playback and I---"

"No!" Irene and John said, simultaneously.

Irene furthered: "No, Nero. You keep Playback safe in the car. Keep everything locked."

Nero pouted. "But she's very clever! She could help!"

John looked down at the scraggly dog drooling in Nero's lap. Obedience training aside, even that moment of intensity back at 221b aside, _clever_ wasn't the word John would use to describe Nero's pet. Loving, yes. Protective, absolutely. Not clever.

Irene took another sharp turn, and the car handled it beautifully. John's stomach, not so much, but that wasn't really all that important. He was surprised at how fast they were making ground, how quickly they were getting to where they needed to go. The Casa Sotelio was somewhere John had never been before this case; it appeared it was somewhere Irene Adler was very familiar with.

"Wilma must've gone through a lot to get your attention with that money," John said. "That client relationship must've ended badly."

Irene's face became purposefully stony, a straight, blank canvas. "Badly is one word for it."

"Yeah? What's another word for it?" John asked.

There was a screech, and dust rose up as Irene pulled the sportscar into the carpark of Casa Sotelio. The club was dark, and the music wasn't blasting. Nothing but silence came from the building, and no one waited outside for them. No cars in the carpark, either. The place _appeared_ deserted. Ominous didn't even begin to cover it.

"Playback and I will wait outside," Nero said, holding onto his dog's collar.

Irene nodded, and turned to John. "Make certain you actually grab my hair," she said. "She'll know if you're not actually hurting me."

"What?" John demanded.

"When you're holding me hostage." A beat. "We decided?"

Did they? Did they actually decide on John's plan? That was---well, that was unexpected, but John would go with it. He pulled out his gun, held it out, and reached back for the door.

"Ready?"

"Yes."

He pulled open the door and stepped out, with all of the force of a man to be reckoned with. _Think_ , he told himself. _Think about what you were going to do before you talked to her._ Because he would've been lying to himself if he pretended he didn't think about holding Irene Adler hostage in order to save Sherlock. 

He kept the gun pointed at Irene, and stepped around to the driver's side, where he pulled open the door and grabbed her roughly by the hair. He heard her yelp in pain, and he felt a twinge of guilt, but he didn't let go. Wilma Ormstein would know if she wasn't really being hurt, Irene had said. And what, John's mind asked, did that mean, exactly? How did Wilma Ormstein know what Irene Adler was like when she was hurt?

It didn't matter. Sherlock was in there, and they needed to rescue him.

John put his gun to Irene's head and held onto her hair as he half-dragged her towards the door.

"I've got what you want!" he shouted. "Give me Sherlock Holmes!"

Silence. Irene didn't whimper, just let out the occasional gasp as John's grip on her hair tightened.

"Where are they?" John breathed.

"Keep moving," Irene replied. "Don't stop, don't think about it. Remember how much you hate me and keep using me as a hostage."

She was surprisingly calm about all of this. Perhaps she, like John, _liked_ this. Maybe there was some part of her that thrilled in the adventure, in the danger. Maybe knowing that Nero was out of all of this made it easier. Maybe knowing they were going to rescue Sherlock did.

"Wilma Ormstein!" John cried out. "I'm bringing you Irene Adler! Come out!"

He got to the door and gave it a bang with his foot. To John's surprise, it slid open. No locks, no one holding it in place. It simply opened. His grip on Irene's hair relaxed for a second in surprise, and she moved forward, as if to struggle away. He gripped harder.

His gun moved away from Irene's head and out in front of them as he shoved the door the rest of the way open with his foot. The club was dark, save for the neon lights along the bar, still lit up. Everything was coated in a strange, ethereal blue.

"Come on," John grunted loudly, giving Irene a pull in the direction of the stairs. "To the lift, we're going."

That's where they would be, right? They'd be down the stairs, holding Sherlock hostage in that strange area with all of those file cabinets. At least, that's where John would've taken Irene, if he were really holding her hostage. But---if this was their plan to get in, what was their plan afterwards? Irene said that Wilma would know they had a plan, so she must've had _some_ sort of a secondary plan. Why didn't she bother telling John?

God, he hated her.

He pushed her up the stairs, and in her heels, Irene stumbled back, just for a moment, into John's arms. Something hard on her thigh pressed into John's stomach. Another gun. She was _armed_. This whole bloody time, she'd been armed.

John raised an eyebrow. He could, in that exact moment, see why Sherlock Holmes _liked_ Irene Adler.

The top of the stairs was still lit in that strange blue, with the stage that Irene had been dancing on bright, illuminating the upstairs well. This wasn't how John imagined the club closed down----they had to be doing this for _them_ , this had to be a way to intimidate them. To frighten them.

"Left one," Irene instructed under her breath. Perhaps something she and Sherlock had found down their elevator was more likely to be a prison cell than what John had found down his?

John reached out to press the button with the butt of his gun, when it lit up on its own.

There was a quiet ding, and the doors started to open. John pulled Irene back, and pointed the gun out to whoever was arriving. Irene was his pretend hostage, but he wasn't going to let either of them get killed.

The door slid open, and another gun was pointed in their direction. At the end of it, with a bloodied nose, a blackened eye, and a torn shirt, was Sherlock Holmes. Apparently, when he realized that Irene Adler was not here, he wasted no time in remaining a hostage.

"John," Sherlock breathed, lowering the gun. He looked to where John held Irene's hair in a vice-like grip. "Come for me, have you?"

There was a buzz, and the lights in the club began to turn on above them, one at a time.


	15. Bitter End

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wilma Ormstein has Irene Adler, Sherlock Holmes, and John Watson precisely where she wants them. Or does she? A certain young wild card in her mix may change the game for good.

"I knew you'd come."

Wilma Ormstein's voice cut through the buzz of the lights in the Casa Sotelio in the same manner that John remembers the knife back at home cutting through cake. Smoothly, with the single stroke pushing everything out of the way. He dropped the pretense of holding Irene Adler hostage and turned his gun towards the sound.

No sign of Wilma Ormstein, nor anyone else from the crime family.

They had the advantage, John told himself. He had a gun. Sherlock had a gun. And, hidden against her thigh, Irene Adler also had a gun. They were armed, and they were leaving with Sherlock Holmes.

"Are you all right?" Sherlock asked Irene. Her hair was a rat's nest on her head from where John had been gripping it but, in comparison to Sherlock's battered state, she was the model of health. She didn't respond, as though the question insulted her.

John, conversely, was irritated, and severely _spooked_ by this voice that spoke to them but didn't appear.

"I'm fine, too, thanks," John snapped. "What the hell were you thinking, going here willingly?"

Sherlock's eyebrows went up, and he looked down to Irene, and then back to John. Irene shook her head, and a very _pleased_ smile went across Sherlock's face. He was bloody pleased that John was attempting deduction, wasn't he? That _bastard._

"No, no," John said, gesturing in Sherlock's direction with his free hand. "No, you don't get that look right now. Really. What makes you think they'd hold her hostage for you? Did you even think for a minute?"

Sherlock's smile faded. "That wasn't who they told me they had hostage."

"Who---?"

A bark sounded out, and the sound of long nails against concrete rang out in the club. Playback. _Damn._ Flashy car in the lot, of course they'd check it out and find the little boy and his stupid dog in there.

"Lower your weapons and come down, _now,_ " commanded Wilma Ormstein.

John peered over the edge of the balcony to see four men, one of which had Nero's arm in a grip, and another holding the excitable Airedale's leash. Nero looked especially distraught to be separated from his dog again, and just on the verge of tears.

All four of the men were armed with automatic rifles. One of them had his pointed at Nero's head.

Four men. The four men that were around Wilma before, the last time John had been at the Casa Sotelio. They must've been her most trusted, and maybe she wanted to keep this private. John could take four men, with Sherlock's help. They'd fought far more. But not with a little boy that close to danger.

John heard Sherlock's gun hit the ground, and he began down the stairs. He didn't hesitate, and John supposed he shouldn't, either. His own gun dropped, and he turned to follow.

He looked to Irene, whose head was up high. Her jaw was set, and her eyes were bright with---no, no, that wasn't worry on her face. It wasn't the same look she gave when Nero threw himself into her arms, all tear-faced and emotional. No, Irene Adler was _furious_. It was a cold, vicious sort of fury, the kind that wasn’t going to leave anyone in its wake. Her gun was still attached to her thigh, and John had a feeling that Wilma wasn't going to leave this place alive.

Wilma gestured to the men as Sherlock and John reached the bottom of the stairs.

"Take them," she said in her clipped accent. "Secure them. They are fighters, we do not want them interrupting."

John didn't struggle as the man grabbed his arm, and he felt a plastic tie go around his wrists. Was that what Sherlock had been secured with before? John had read how to break these ties, but he didn't know if he had the dexterity. Sherlock seemed relaxed as he was held---maybe he could break free. But, then again, the look on Sherlock's face was so stony, so angry. He wasn't easy to read, right now. But with the situation---

There were only a few people in the world that Sherlock cared about. Irene Adler was one. And Nero, well, John could only imagine. And John knew, even when Sherlock was being an absolute _shit_ and was making his life hell, that he was important to Sherlock. And at the moment, all three of them were in danger. That stony, empty look on Sherlock's face was probably because he was seconds from ending the lives of everyone in this room.

It was entirely possible the only thing John would need to do after he broke these ties was cover Nero's eyes.

One of the men, the largest and most muscular, grabbed Irene and tugged her roughly over to Wilma. He shoved her to the center of the half-circle of people standing on the dance floor. Irene stumbled from the shove, but righted herself immediately, holding her head high. Although she was at least half a foot shorter than Wilma, she seemed to stand the same height as the other woman.

Wilma let out a laugh. "So much pride. You do not change."

Irene said nothing. It struck John that it was as though Wilma was not _worthy_ of Irene's words.

Wilma gestured to John. "What did she tell you about us, then? She tell you lies, yes? I knew she would."

John should've stayed quiet. He knew this, but---damn, if his curiosity wasn't getting the better of him. Who the hell was this woman to Irene Adler?

"She said you were her client," he said. Even as he spoke, he could feel Sherlock's angry gaze burning into the side of his head.

"Client? _Client?_ " Wilma snapped. "As in _prostitute client_?"

She reached out and slapped Irene across the face. John felt Sherlock tense, and struggle forward, but the man holding him held hard. Irene's head went with the slap, and blood blossomed from her nose, but she turned it back to face Wilma, and still refused to speak.

"No, I not pay for Irene Adler," Wilma said. "She was my _girlfriend_ , my lover. My _universe_ , and she knew it. Then she say I not respect her, that I too cruel, too bad temper. Leave without saying goodbye."

She reached out and grabbed Irene's hair roughly, pulling her face very close. "Leave me at _all!_ " Wilma cried out. "No one leave me until I'm done with them!"

Nero appeared to hold in his tears for as long as he could, and then let out a long, loud whine. Wilma's attention broke, and she _sneered_. She threw Irene's head back, and turned to face Sherlock.

"She turn to _you!_ Care for you and your whiny son!" She spat. "She must love you to put up with _him!_ "

"You're hurting my dog!" Nero sniffled. He tried to hold in his tears. "Please, just let me hold---please---"

"Oh, for Christ's sake, give him his stupid dog," Wilma snapped to the guard. "I can't concentrate with stupid Holmes boy crying."

The guard released Playback, who bounded over to Nero with an excited, wagging tail. Nero's tears stopped, and he knelt down to pet her. Even with the gun against his head, even with the blood running down his mother's face, he was a smiling, happy four-year-old again.

John was astounded. Was Nero honestly crying over Playback? His mother was being assaulted---viciously, violently assaulted, and he was worried about his dog? Was he---no, he was not going to keep this one in.

"Seriously?" John snapped. "You care more about your dog than your own mother? Seriously? Nero, what the hell----"

"John!" Sherlock shouted, his tone angered and admonishing.

"Mother?" Wilma's voice rang out. Her eyes went wide with fury. "This is not just _his_ son, this is _yours_? You made a _baby_? With a _man!_ We were going to have family, Irene! _Us!_ "

She turned to Irene, and she raised up her hand again. John suddenly could see what must have happened. Abuse. It may have gone on for a while, it may have happened only once, but whatever it was, Irene Adler wouldn't stand for it. And Wilma Ormstein never got over it. She clung to the obsession that Irene was hers. It was never the information in Irene's head that she wanted.

"Playback is a very special dog!" Nero said. His voice seemed very loud, and it was clear enough to stop the slap Wilma was about to deliver.

Wilma turned to face the little boy, and her fat face was red. "You should never have been born," she said. "I will make sure this is corrected."

"Do you want to know why she's special? Way more special than you and your jealous, stupid face. No wonder Mum left you. Everyone would leave you."

Wilma gestured to a guard. "Hold her back, give me her gun."

Oh, god. She was going to kill Nero. John twisted his hands, tightened the ties, but it only seemed to make them more difficult to move. He couldn't get them to break. Sherlock's guard put an arm around his neck, as Sherlock seemed to be struggling even more.

When John looked back, Irene's gun was out, and a guard was fighting her, easily twisting it out of her hand and pulling her into a chokehold. Wilma put her strongest man on Irene for a reason.

"Playback's not dumb," Nero continued. His voice was still clear, but it wavered, just a little afraid. "I would never have picked a dumb dog. But she's extra special. I could tell you why."

The guard handed the gun to Wilma. Wilma cocked it and pointed it towards the boy.

"Your puppy is irrelevant to me," Wilma snapped. "Killing you is what matters."

"She's not a puppy," Nero snapped. "She's _two_. And if she got any bigger, she'd be a police dog right now. The lady at the pet store told me. She went through all the training before they decided she was too small."

A small, cruel smile appeared on the little boy's face. The white teeth, the twist to the lip. It mirrored his parents' smiles perfectly.

"Watch."

He released the dog's leash.

"Playback. _Sic._ "

There was no hesitation. The Airedale went from playful, loving pup to the growling, single-minded creature John saw once before in a heartbeat. She leapt forward, going immediately for Wilma Ormstein. The dog's small size made leaping easy, as she jumped up for the woman's arm, teeth bearing down. Wilma let out a scream, and blood began to pour out of her arm.

The gun clattered on the floor.

John didn't hesitate. He had no time for this. He threw his head back into the man behind him's nose, and tossed the weight of his body backwards as well. He heard a snap, and then a punch, and he turned his head to see Sherlock was free of his ties and struggling with his own guard.

John's guard pulled him into a headlock, and John dropped to his knees, rolling over so he could slam his weight back onto the man's shoulderblades, to get him to release him. Without his arms, John had the significant disadvantage, but John had speed and skill. He also had no intention of losing. He turned, and pushed his head up again, throwing his forehead into the man's jaw. The button, they called it in boxing, that place that could cause severe brain damage if done incorrectly, but at the very least could knock a man out if done correctly.

John's guard went limp, and John struggled up to his feet in time to see Sherlock throw a final kick to the solarplexus of his own guard, finally throwing him to the ground. He reached down, plucking a knife from his guard's toolbelt and turning to John. With a quick slice, John's hands were free.

Irene stood above the final two guards, both of whom were conscious, with their hands on top of their heads. Her gun was in her hand.

"Nero," she said, voice cool and relaxed. "Call Playback back."

Wilma was whimpering, and Playback was tearing viciously at her arm. From what John could tell, that arm wasn't going to make it. Ligament and bone were visible, and blood flowed everywhere. It would take a qualified surgeon to keep the bloodflow down---but John had a feeling it wasn't going to come to that.

"Playback, come."

Again, without any hesitation, Playback released Wilma's arm and moved back to Nero, her fuzzy face red with blood. While it was a gruesome sight it was—god, it was nothing but relief to see that not only did Nero have a pet, he had one that would defend him.

Nero pointed to the two conscious guards.

"Playback, guard," he instructed. The dog turned and stepped over to the men, growing and snarling, but not attacking.

Irene smiled, and stepped away from the men, over to her former lover.

"Mr. Holmes," she said. "If you could please escort Nero back to the car."

Sherlock reached out a hand for his son, and then took a step forward to pick him up in his arms. Nero wrapped his arms around his father's neck and relaxed, leaning against him. To see Sherlock so injured, but still so gentle with Nero it was, well it was as close to _moving_ as John could remember.

As they left the building, John turned back to Irene, still with her gun pointed at Wilma. No matter what Wilma had done, this would still be murder, and John had to say something. Even if he didn't necessarily agree with what he was saying, he had to at least _say it._

"Irene---"

"You told me once that I _fucked up_ , Dr. Watson," Irene said, glancing up at him. "I think it's about time I fixed that, don't you?"

She cocked the gun.

"No games this time," she said, and gave him a small smile. Very small. Not a smirk, not a crooked grin, not a sneer. But a smile. Something real. Something almost but not quite like the private, small smiles that Sherlock would give him. The ones that Sherlock gave that meant things were going to be all right, that he'd made it better now.

It was almost enough to make John like her.


	16. The Final Deduction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The final chapter. Irene, Sherlock, John, and Nero return home to Baker Street. Decisions are made, and plans are prepared.

The drive back to Baker Street was a blur. John stood outside of the stolen sportscar while Sherlock secured Nero inside, and listened to the four gunshots in succession inside of the building, followed by one more, just a moment later. Irene Adler, cleaning up a mess she'd long ago thought would simply vanish on its own.

She emerged a moment later, her hair fixed, and Playback secured on the end of a leash. The dog didn't struggle, just walked playfully towards the car, hopping in and laying her head on Nero's lap once she was instructed to.

It was 5 in the morning and the sun was starting to rise over London. Irene drove, Sherlock took the passenger's seat, and John sat in the back with Nero, watching the boy doze with his dog. With the adrenaline of what had happened dissipating from his system, John began to feel the exhaustion from the last two days creep in, and his eyelids were starting to droop. All the same, he caught glimpses of Sherlock and Irene in the front.

Irene Adler, staring steadfast out the front, driving in complete silence. Sherlock, staring nowhere but at her. His eyes were intense, _intent_. It was as though Irene Adler was the sun and Sherlock was determined to burn out his retinas before the drive was up.

"I'm _fine_ ," she muttered once, only once.

"I know," Sherlock replied, voice low. He still didn't break his gaze. 

Whether that look was worry, interest, or pure lust, John didn't know. He wasn't entirely certain he ever would know. She didn't ask if he was all right. The fact that he was breathing and bleeding in the seat next to her seemed to be enough.

"Go ahead and take the couch, John," Sherlock said. He held onto Nero, who had fallen asleep in the car. Playback trailed behind as Sherlock didn't wait for a response as he skipped over the creaky stair, he just started up towards John's room. Nero's room, John supposed. John's room was back at home, with Mary.

God, Mary. John pulled out his mobile and sent her a quick text. _We're all right. Got everyone out safe. Home tomorrow. x_

He paused before he sent it. He could try to go home. He glanced at Irene Adler, putting a kettle on for no discernible reason in the kitchen, and he listened for Sherlock upstairs.

This must've been what it was like, for Sherlock. The odd man out of the relationship.

"You've been up for two days, Dr. Watson," Irene said, appearing at his shoulder with his Union Flag pillow. "Trying to drive would just be dangerous at this point."

Her voice wasn’t exactly motherly, not the way that Mary's could be. But it did hold genuine notes of caring. Maybe, if she didn't care about John, she cared about the fact that Sherlock did.

There was a loud creak as Sherlock stepped back down the stairs alone, holding a blanket.

"It's not exactly fair, though, is it?" he inquired, handing the blanket to John.

John took it, blinking. "What isn't?"

"Wilma Ormstein's ultimate demise," Sherlock explained, with the annoyed tone that stated that John should already be on this part of the conversation. "She put more of the people I care about in danger, I deserved to kill her."

Irene smirked and turned back to the kitchen. John made a face. Somehow, this was going to be the conversation. And, somehow, this was more comfortable and more familiar than any of the conversations about children or Irene Adler or anything else over the last two days. John couldn't help but _welcome_ this.

"Yes, but that would have made you a _murderer,_ Sherlock."

Sherlock snorted. "We both already know that's in my repertoire."

A slight smile appeared on John's face. Yeah, it was, wasn't it? When John and Mary were in danger, Sherlock killed Charles Augustus Magnussen. John had killed for Sherlock. And now, Irene had killed for all of them. Though, for all John knew, that wasn’t something new for her, either.

Sherlock's face was bruised, bloodied, and still he managed a little smile, one that made him look like he was about twelve years old. Even now, now that John knew he had a child and a sort of awkward family with the most dangerous woman that John had ever met, Sherlock was still just himself. And that was comforting.

"Get some rest, John."

John nodded. "You, too."

Sherlock turned towards the kitchen, where Irene was pouring the boiling water into a bowl with a towel. Not the most sterile or efficient way to clean up a wound, and John would have told her that, except she promptly reached down, picked up her high heels and put them on the table. With the towel, she began to wipe off the blood from the tops of her heels.

"Your dog's going to chew those up before the week's out," Sherlock murmured to her. His voice was low, but just loud enough for John to hear as he began to make himself comfortable on the couch. John could just about see Irene, from where she stood in the kitchen, but Sherlock was out of sight.

"She's not my dog," Irene purred, clearly both irritated by the conversation and amused by it at the same time.

"Nero's dog."

"He said she went through police obedience classes," Irene replied, drawing the towel across one of the long heels.

"He didn't say she passed."

Irene's lips twitched into a small smirk. "Everything can be trained with time," she said.

"I couldn't."

She turned her head to wherever Sherlock was in the kitchen, and a look of pure defiance crossed her face. It was almost _comical_ to John. As in, how _dare_ he tell her that he wasn't cowing to her every whim, when that was clearly not what she wanted at all. She liked it when Sherlock fought back; she liked it when he argued with her. Even now, all defiant and irritated, she didn't pull back when Sherlock's hand appeared to cup the side of her face, and her eyes closed as he leaned in to press his mouth to hers.

John didn't understand them. He didn't understand a relationship that was built like this. He could understand the love of adventure, even the thrill of danger, but this---this thing they had, it was beyond him.

John looked down at his mobile, and thought about Mary. For Sherlock, with his twisted, backwards, antagonistic ways with Irene Adler, Mary must've looked downright confusing. But she was perfect for John. Even her flaws, even the past that John didn't know.

He sent the text, letting Mary know he'd be home in the morning. Because he knew she'd understand.

The reply from Mary was immediate. _Love you x_

There was a quiet _click_ as Sherlock's bedroom door shut. John glanced up to see that Irene and Sherlock had taken their leave of the kitchen, leaving the steaming bowl of water, the half-cleaned shoes, and everything else behind.

It didn't matter that what Sherlock and Irene had was beyond him. It was right for the two of them. And they were, as far as John could see, _happy_. 

+~

"Dr. Watson! Dr. Watson! Wake up!"

All right, apparently Nero had that gene, that one that made him an absolute morning person. The boy was all but bouncing in front of him, holding out a box of Maltsers and another book on orchids.

"I found this hidden under my pillow, it's from Father, right? I'm right, aren't I? There was a note that said I should eat this whole box before mother picked me up this afternoon."

John blinked. God, how many of those sweets had the boy eaten? Oh, god, Sherlock was getting him hyper before Irene took him home. What a _bastard._

"Where's your mother?" John asked, sitting up.

"Out, a few hours ago. Took Playback to get a few things," Nero said. "Father's still asleep."

"I know you didn't inherit being an early riser from him," John said.

"That's what Mother says."

John eyed the boy as he popped another chocolate in his mouth. "Back to 'Mother' and 'Father', eh? You were calling them Mummy and Daddy for a while there."

Nero shrugged. "I was tired. They get all awkward when I get too informal." He turned, looking up at John. "I want them to like me, and if they get too awkward all the time, they won't."

John shook his head and reached out, putting a hand on Nero's shoulder. "I don't think that's how it works. Being a parent, Nero. They---they love you. Because…they're your parents."

"You have _met_ them, Dr. Watson?" Nero said, and his voice was just the right edge of sarcastic, letting him know that if there was any doubt that this was Sherlock's child, it was absolutely gone, now.

The door to Sherlock's room opened, and Sherlock stepped out in his dressing gown. His hair was askew, he yawned, and at the base of his collarbone was a rather impressive love bite. He paused upon realizing that other people were in the living room, and readjusted his gown to cover the mark.

Well, good on them for not waking John up, at the very least.

"Where is she?" Sherlock asked, looking around. The bowl and shoes from the night before were gone, and she'd done some mild form of cleaning up of Nero's things---leaving all of Sherlock's mess alone, mind.

"She went out, a few hours ago," Nero said, popping another candy into his mouth. "Where did you find the book? I was looking for it for ages!"

"I have a friend who specializes in antique literature," Sherlock replied. "Well, I say 'a friend'…"

John blinked. "You gave antique literature to a four-year-old."

Sherlock waved a dismissive hand. "He'll be fine."

Nero, for his part, looked offended. "I know how to take care of books, Dr. Watson."

"I hope so, your mother gave me a list of books you want for your birthday," Sherlock said. He let out a snort as he looked at his phone. "She could find a few of these things herself."

Despite how annoyed he sounded, John had the distinct impression that Sherlock enjoyed it. Enjoyed looking for strange books on orchids or whatever Nero wanted. Showing off that he knew someone who specialized in antique literature—who John didn't know, actually, and that made him just a touch nervous.

"Hello, Mrs. Wolfe!" came the happy chime from Mrs. Hudson downstairs. If John didn't know better, he'd almost say that cheerful, loud greeting was plotted by Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson so he'd know that Irene was on her way back.

Sherlock reached over and snatched the sweets from Nero's hands, indicating him to _shhhh_ when the boy started to protest. John shook his head. God, the two of them. Well, the three of them. In the light of the morning, it was all very comical, and a whole lot less terrifying. It was a lot of Sherlock, being himself. Flirting, as best he knew how.

Irene came upstairs, with Playback tapping merrily ahead of her. It was very apparent what Irene had been up to on her outing. Any question of Playback's gender was now gone, as Irene had the dog washed and groomed, a lot of the scraggly hairs snipped away to reveal the Airedale heritage within the mutt. Irene had also purchased Playback some sort of sparkling, pink collar that seemed to be gem-encrusted, and had her on a pink leather leash. Playback was still the ugliest dog that John had ever seen, mind. Just, a lot more feminine, and definitely more sophisticated. Apparently, Irene decided the dog deserved to be treated like one of the family.

Nero hopped off of the couch and jumped over to the dog, gleefully running to give her a big hug. Playback barked excitedly, and Irene let out a low, annoyed sigh. John couldn't help but smile. The dog was going to drive Irene insane, but she was going to manage it for Nero's sake. Sherlock was never going to let her live that down.

"Nero, darling, get your raincoat," Irene instructed him.

Nero let out a fantastic pout, one that John had to believe was entirely himself as he detached himself from his dog and went over to his bag and his raincoat sitting by the stairs.

"He's more hyper than he was when I left," Irene said, staring pointedly at Sherlock.

"He just woke up, I don't control John," Sherlock said, gesturing towards the couch.

John raised a finger. "No. No, don't bring me into this. We were having a perfectly lovely morning, we should keep it that way."

Sherlock looked from John back to Irene, and a small smile appeared on his face. "You see, he's going to be a great father."

"Oh, I suppose," Irene said, though her voice was theatrically doubtful. She glanced in John's direction and gave him a small smile as well, that mirrored Sherlock's. The two looked back at each other for a long moment. Small smiles, quiet looks. These were things that happened between John and Mary all of the time, but---how often did they happen for Sherlock and Irene? And were they even the same?

From the way Sherlock stepped away, and the look of triumph on Irene's face, John had a feeling that no, no, they really weren't.

"We'll still be meeting in Rome for Nero's birthday, then?" Irene said, pulling out a few papers from the inside of her coat. Tickets, it appeared, for herself and for Nero. They were leaving, and now.

"Absolutely," Sherlock responded, his own pout over their little staring contest now fully in force. Or, perhaps, because they were leaving, John couldn't tell.

"We'll split the books for Nero," she added.

"Of course."

"And you'll take the whole week?" Irene inquired, sounding mildly incredulous.

"I said I would," Sherlock responded, his own tone insulted. "Why are you asking again?"

There was a pause, and Irene's gaze turned to the stairs, to the little boy watching them.

"The trip was _your_ idea," Irene said, pointedly.

Sherlock's jaw went up, and they both turned as one to look over by the stairs, where Nero was suddenly very, _very_ interested in the buttons of his coat.

Oh, God. Nero had been up all morning, playing bloody matchmaker with his parents, and negotiating with them which would buy him what birthday gifts he wanted. He was definitely going to be a master criminal. Or a brilliant detective, whichever of his parents got their way.

Irene's face was irritated as she looked at Nero, but softened as she turned away. A pleased look crossed her face, something warm and almost _motherly_. It was…rather strange, actually, but it seemed to suit her.

"Goodbye, Mr. Holmes," she said.

He gave her a nod. "'Til the next time."

She turned away from Sherlock then. No goodbye kisses, no embraces, nothing. Just a farewell and a departure. She even tossed a nod in John's direction as she headed for the door, dog's leash in one hand, Nero's hand in the other. Heading outside for another really expensive stolen sportscar (this one bright violent purple) waiting outside. The strangest mother John had ever seen and yet---well, she _worked_. She suited her son, and his father.

Speaking of, Sherlock still stood by the fireplace, as though replaying everything that had just occurred over and over in his head, trying to recall every moment. John usually only saw these sorts of displays when Sherlock was furious at himself for doing something wrong and he was trying to piece together what he'd missed. Maybe that was happening in regards to the text exchange he'd had with his son about, well, his son's birthday.

"You all right?" John asked, standing and stretching.

Sherlock nodded. "She usually leaves without any sort of…formal goodbye."

"Yeah, she said you don't like those," John said.

Sherlock didn't respond, but his silence answered for him. No, John didn't think Sherlock liked saying goodbye to his Woman. He had a feeling that, too often, goodbyes with her were the last time he ever thought he'd see her again. But not this time. No, they had plans, and they had holidays, whether or not Sherlock would call the plans he had with Irene that.

But still, she lived a dangerous life. So did he.

Sherlock stepped over to his violin. He didn't play it as often when John was around. Not so often lost in thought when his only friend wasn't around all of the time. Sherlock tried to take advantage of the time they had together, not lose himself in it.

It was almost nice, seeing something so familiar return.

"Do _you_ think you'll be seeing her again?" John asked.

Sherlock raised the violin to his chin and began to draw the bow across it. The long, sad, heartbroken notes John remembered before returned, but now they had a different tone. Almost hopeful.

"She always comes back."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who helped me make this story happen and stuck with me to the end.

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired by a prompt from Lyrangalia, who also assisted with beta-ing this little mini-monster.
> 
> This is also filling the "free space" prompt in the Sherlock Rarepair fic bingo.


End file.
